Aunt Lucy's Estate (or) What Should We Do With Her Apron?

by Amy Soricelli

It is not the sunlight that has faded me worn-down to the seams -
the sagging leftover hum of the summer; the light before dark
as it slips through palm trees reminding of tea bags, soap operas.
It is the furious rubbing of her hands as she rushed to some ringing phone, the boiling pot -
the news snickering  from inside the family room.
It is the sixty years of  birthday dinners,
the 'caught it before it burned' inside jokes iced across the night like a cake.
It is the collection of hot cold smooth spicy fingerprints across the face of me.
Whatever is left smoldering in the ashes of their history gets shouted across a room-
whispered through the screen door landing like embroidery sweet-edged in design.
I have been pulled hard in anger, tied deep in fear;
in happy celebration -small rose-colored buds along the waist -
I have been smoothed down/pleated straight.
I have carried treats in the very edges of my pocket/teasing love from hidden places;
small hands burrowing deep into corners,
closing hopeful fingers around the tightest spots.
I hang, now, behind the swinging door- not packed up in death boxes with salt and pepper shakers,
care-worn pages from high school classics;
the Still Life with Dog that held its place above the sofa.
I have sat down to endless meals with the souls of the same people -
let their words mingle like steam across the water glasses.
I have curled up inside myself and balled into the corner waiting for the next gathering
and my silent, steady place in it.