Abecedarian: Whatever Grows
Aunt B. lives, after her death, in our wedding photos:
bespectacled, cigarette hanging from her lips, beer
cup in one hand, phone in the other, capturing us
darling newlyweds in love & frighteningly unaware
even of the beautiful and terrible and surprising
forms love can take. I thought love was the polka dotted dress
(gone now) I wore on Valentine’s & patent black
heels tip-toeing through the snow. Years later,
I’m pregnant & we’re pulled into the Boy Scout lot in
January & I’m puking & even later, he’s crying (in the same lot), the
keys still in the ignition, into his egg McMuffin after we
lost his mom. More time passed and my uncle
moved my aunt into the living room when she was
next to dying so she could see the expanse of yard
out the front picture window and whatever grows at that
point in summer. She died in the morning in the
quiet of her living room on my oldest son’s birthday. Whispers
reverberated among the adults at his party & we
sipped our drinks– bottomless and strong– out of Daniel
Tiger cups. Death comes in like a summer storm:
ubiquitous, dark clouds filling the horizon,
violet stretching out forever, that familiar smell
wilting, a heavy mist rising, floral & fragrant. Aunt B. gifted me
xmas decorations, which I still use around the house every
year. Your Aunt B. made that I say to my son (who’s forgotten her)
zipping his jacket in the glow of the candy garland.
