Rose

She was a good one, Aunt Rose
younger sister of my mother
laughter in her voice
a sophisticated inflection in her throat
different from the seven siblings,
a Katherine Hepburn speaking
with a New York accent

she was tall to their shortness
black hair to their blonde
brown eyes to their blue –
maybe a baby mix-up in hospital,
never-to-be-known

rosy-red lipsticked
white-cheeked
she tickled my sense of humour,
she would make a remark,
then quiet,
then a look from the side of the eye,
then peals of laughter
so contagious
the room would rock

a joke was more than a cause for laughter,
it was an occasion, an event, an adventure;
every conversation was an adventure

we did not meet often,
it was a fact of New York geography
and family priorities
and then, young, I moved over an ocean
to another home

meetings were snuggly,
even if we didn’t touch
our souls settled into each others’ fondly
there was a coziness in her nearness
she had a presence most don’t dare to wear

she had one son
and one husband, a non-entity,
who appears indistinctly as a World War II
army uniform memory only;
the unhappiness in that home
did not manifest itself to me
I thought she was too cheery
to be sad, to take the world to heart

breast cancer,
the usual Jewish solution
to various family problems,
was her solution too
a Libra, the breast stayed,
she could not bear
to be off-balanced that way

and deteriorated
when, by some whim of fate,
her husband died
and remission ensued

we discussed death –
she wanted to live,
as all those dying do,
I think she was surprised that
I didn’t care much for life then,
(you could say this had never been
my cup of tea)
and maybe it caused her
to look at death a bit differently

but eventually she died
and I live still
artists have drawn up
a different contract
with God

it’s all very humorous
isn’t it Aunt Rose?
I can hear your glorious giggle
laughing at my reminiscences

keep a warm seat
next to you
when my weariness
on this precarious Earth
gets the better of me