Baby's Breath

The florist has it ready. Six pale roses nestle in snowy baby's breath and soft green ferns.  I choose a card with butterflies. I must write a message that she will not read. Words come hard, now as before:

No hope they say. We’re going to lose her. 

There has to be something.  

Nothing. 

Bloody doctors. 

She’s just a wean.

I write in big, round letters: Fly away, little one.