Missing her

I’m missing her again.
Her smile, her laugh.

Aunt Elizabeth stands at the kitchen stove, her back to me,
stirring spaghetti sauce for our family dinner.
I’m helping by chopping up onion.

The smell of garlic fills the house.
There’s laughter in the den.
The ballgame’s on.
Ranger’s need to pick it up.

Later, after dinner, we’ll pay cards.
Nertz, or my favorite, Phase 10.

She’ll sit across from me
her huge breasts bouncing
her squinty eyes squinting
giggling at the moment.
Surrounded by her mother, father,
brothers, sisters, husband, children, nieces, nephews.
We’ll laugh together because families are funny.

I’m missing her again (always and always).

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