Aunt Elanor

                     Aunt Eleanor                               

        She is my best friend, Aunt Eleanor.

        She is like candy, sweet and you always                want more.

        She is my mom’s sister; they don’t look                  alike.

        She is our neighbor too.

        She said she didn’t

        have any children because I was plenty.

        Plenty of what is what I thought.

        Her nightly back scratch is soothing like                melted molasses.

        When she stops, I’m lonely as a ghoul

        because I know she will go.

        Her hair is worn snatched up in a ponytail

        pulling her eyes tight like a knot. When she            wears

        green it pulls those perfect blue eyes                      straight

        to me.

        She is not pretty, she is beautiful, like a                  Barbie

        with a pink car. She’s kinder than any friend          at my school.

       On Monday mom came and got me from               school

       at one o’clock. On the way home she said

       something I didn’t understand. She said

       Aunt Eleanor had a stroke. Mom held

       my sticky hands in Eleanor’s room.

       I missed her eyes that shined like sparklers           on the fourth.

       Then her eyes closed and all the other eyes           cried.

       I don’t know the name for it at six.

       It is like a lightning bug that lost her light.

       It is like when Buster’s tail stops wagging.

                                Mom said it is sorrow.

                                Dad said it is grief.

                                I say it is alone.

Aunt Eleanor                               

        She is my best friend, Aunt Eleanor.

        She is like candy, sweet and you always want more.

        She is my mom’s sister; they don’t look alike.

        She is our neighbor too.

        She said she didn’t

        have any children because I was plenty.

        Plenty of what is what I thought.

        Her nightly back scratch is soothing like melted molasses.

        When she stops, I’m lonely as a ghoul

        because I know she will go.

        Her hair is worn snatched up in a ponytail

        pulling her eyes tight like a knot. When she wears

        green it pulls those perfect blue eyes straight

        to me.

        She is not pretty, she is beautiful, like a k

       On Monday mom came and got me from school

       at one o’clock. On the way home she said

       something I didn’t understand. She said

       Aunt Eleanor had a stroke. Mom held

       my sticky hands in Eleanor’s room.

       I missed her eyes that shined like sparklers on the fourth.

       Then her eyes closed and all the other eyes cried.

                                I don’t know the name for it at six.

                                It is like a lightning bug that lost her light.

                                It is like when Buster’s tail stops wagging.

                                Mom said it is sorrow.

                                Dad said it is grief.

                                I say it is alone.