Letter to Aunt Mary

Aunt Mary:

 

I’m reminded of Sunday afternoons

spent working your Mini Pages puzzles with my cousins,

of occasions when you’d place a bedrail across the front of the couch

and pretend we were still infants,

of the nature walks you took us on as you imparted

your knowledge of Iris cristata, Cornus florida

and the taste of honeysuckle eaten on the front porch swing.

Do you remember when we’d read together, sonnets and prose?

 

Hugo wrote, Not seeing people permits us to imagine them with every perfection.

You gave me my first copy of Les Mis.

You walked across a college stage once, valedictory speech in hand.

I imagine you quoted Hugo, or some other French romantic,

before you traded a Paris Embassy job for substitute teaching gigs and

a two-month stint as a records clerk at the local county courthouse.

You exchanged your dreams for your childhood bedroom

and for years, I wondered why.

 

I remember nights when Mamaw called Mother over

when you’d broken her glasses, or aimed a jar of Prego at her head,

or pushed her down the stairs with the chair you were carrying,

annoyed that she wouldn’t walk faster.

Perhaps the chair invaded the tiny space in your bedroom

between the stacks of magazines and books piled

higher than the furniture.

 

The last time I saw you,

the stroke had  recreated you like hard water filtered through stone.

I watched as you tried to photocopy my high school graduation article

in the microwave and fed stray cats cereal.

I am haunted by the cheerful harmonies you sang

along with the songs at Mamaw’s funeral

and the timbre of your eerie, child-like giggle

escaping from behind the rail of your hospital gurney.

 

In college, I sometimes stayed in bed,

the rail of my bunk parallel to my body,

surveying my room that looked a lot like yours --

written papers scattered on every surface,

open books sprawled across the floor.