Not enough time could pass for me to forget how
Aunt Jeanine’s musky perfume of dry rose scent always lingered
in the air everywhere she went,
rambling on about what she heard on the radio last night
and the funny things her Dalmatians did.
Not enough to forget her arguments with Amanda about the boy who lived near them on
Washington Lane when they were young.
Resentment grew through the years as they always fought about who loved him the most.
Yet, they never mentioned his name once.
Not enough to forget Aunt Jeanine loved wilted flowers and kept them
in every room of her one story yellow house
hidden behind backroads and fallen trees.
Definitely not enough to forget Aunt Jeanine loved to smoke ever since she was young and
saw Anne Marie sneaking a drag behind the school once before soccer practice.
She always coughed with a terrible, wheezing breath,
yet still had a stunning singing voice she brought with her on holidays.
She would push tangled hair out of my eyes and
kiss my embarrassed cheeks.
Her fingertips matched the color of her cozy home,
and premature wrinkles etched along her skin.
Not enough to forget the time Amanda said Jeanine would die young, and
Jeanine just laughed.
She had seen the world like a game made up
on the playground, following her own set of rules.
You know, sometimes, when I feel my hair blowing in the wind,
or I hear the sound of dogs barking in the distance,
I can still smell the faint scent of rose.