Aunt Susan

Aunt Susan

Today, when her cuckoo clock strikes

the hour, it reminds me of being with

her again, back in the garden where 

dandelions grew with a hint of yellow 

streaming through the air, where she 

still waits, lounging in her old plastic 

chair, a cigarette in her right hand. 

And the clappers dangle and clang 

from the golden chain counting hours

with a pause in eternity and the time before

she left. When we’d walk to the river, 

our feet wet over the smooth pebbles,

both of us reaching below the coolness

of ripples as we’d hollow the waves for toads, 

tipping our glass jars into the water. 

We’d watch them swim in, only for us 

to free them again, where she taught 

me, there is joy in the act of letting go. 

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