That strange aunt at the holiday table
Her drawings, bizarre, of some
Grandma Jean hung them to make
make her feel “special,”
The aunt at the table, that the kids
felt compulsion to stare at, while
holiday prayers were recited.
Sporting some facial hair, clodhopper
shoes, the spinster like shuffler, with
the leopard skin knockoff bag, never
came with a “man friend,”
though Aunt Renee said, she probably
thought best, not to bring one.
Losing touch with the family, I hadn’t
thought back to those times, till today
at Aunt Abigail’s funeral, with the
the calling of cousins, paying respect,
sharing some latter day thoughts
as adults now, admitting we saw parts
of ourselves, through the years, that
mimicked the aunt we once deemed
When not writing, Emalisa Rose enjoys crafting and drawing. She volunteers in animal rescue. She walks with a birding group on Sundays. Some of her work has appeared in The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review, Anti Heroin Chic and other eclectic places. She can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org
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