Claire (1905-2010)

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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