Down the concrete steps. I would sit in the outside kitchen, in a corner, on a wooden stool. And you standing in front of a hot stove, stirring your pot. You would share your stories of growing up, without a mother, who died early in your life. Leaving you like a mother to your brothers and sisters. But these stories were told in a matter of fact mood. That was how it was. There was neither anger nor regret intoned.
how lucky am i
to be privy to your life -
now you too have left
© gillena cox
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