the church is large
the kneeler hard
and my thoughts cannot remain within cold incensed walls
they take me to Aunt Celeste's long ago table
her mother's lace tablecloth
plates of rich red food
laughter
the memory of Uncle Dom's hand passing the bread
but today the priest in white speaks of Uncle Dom's departed soul
and Aunt Celeste sits huddled in the shadow of her grown children
on the front pew
a smaller
clearer version of the woman she used to be
the others fly to my waiting mind
Aunt Einnie no longer holds a 5 o'clock martini with an elegant hand
Aunt Angie is a frail piece of cut crystal with snow white hair
Uncle Charlie's laugh shrunk with his beer belly
his old hat sits on a lonesome shelf
Aunt Eve touches our faces in love
with a paper palm that smells of times yet unknown
not as solid as they once were
waiting to be memories
the anchors to our youth
our grownups
are leaving us
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