Claire (1905-2010)

November 17, 2011
You’re still sitting in your apartment.
The pink paint on your walls has finally dried.
You’re waiting for us.
We are coming.
The wind gives you my words.
I am coming and I never left.
Stuffed animals line the back of the couch.
My finest company, you once told us.
And then: Except for you.
The sentence was accompanied by a wink,
and was only meant for me.
And I handed you a smile. A real one this time.
You tell my father that you have never had scotch.
105 years have been scotch-free. Make me some, you tell him.
You want your throat to catch fire. You want your throat to burn.
To burn with memories and dead children and dead grand-children, and even great-grand-children.
I wish my fire could do you justice.
And then you sleep.
The world’s most comfortable bed,

tears make the softest of pillows.

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