by John Grey.
There was the aunt
more talked about
than actually seen by the likes of me,
who wore form-fitting blouses,
hip-hugging skirts and high-heels,
whether for a night out on the town,
a wedding or a funeral.
She never married
but her numerous boyfriends
were the subject
of family legend.
She drank, loved to dance,
and she owned a dozen wigs.
I’d listen in
to conversations,
piece her together third hand.
Oh how she made the family so ashamed
even as her exploits entertained them.
What about when she lived
in the trailer with that guy,
the ones with all the guns
and the animal skins.
Or the night she spent
in jail for drunkenness.
Or when she went skinny-dipping
in the reservoir.
She died in a car accident
at forty two
though they said she looked sixty two
and her wigs and lipsticks
and French perfumes
were divided up amongst the clan.
My mother kept the framed photograph
of her hugging some local sports star.
Her eyes are lit up, her cheeks are flared,
and her smile’s as wide as a grapefruit slice.
I must have looked at that picture
maybe two hundred times.
It’s where I first learned happiness.