All through the neighborhood, I find the wrinkled lips and toothless mouths of decaying iris blooms. Some are still sticky with color, evidence of spring sweets consumed. The evening breeze blows powder from their necks. No one visits. And so they pass, without regret, from glory days to introspection. Time for tea. The blessing of infinity to wise old aunts, so patient with the foolishness of boys and men.
June 3, 2019
Stale In Her Pages
The old aunt forgot to eat her soup, forgot to die as well, as old aunts sometimes do — forgot to die, forgot her soup, gazed out instead at the world drowning in sunlight, as in afternoons she was wont to do, keeping evenings for memories dim or bright as stars — forgot to die, forgot her soup, drowning in sunlight, keeping evenings, lost therein until her niece arrived to find her a long unopened book, so stale in her pages she did not turn them quickly enough — forgot to die, forgot her soup, drowning in sunlight, stars in the evening, setting thus in motion — a fan to move the air, a flame to warm the soup, a brush to tame the hair, courage to read on, patience for the end.
Recently Banned Literature, April 22, 2013
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