Your skeleton bones, and yelling for your rights to
The owl pillow, the one that I “loaned” to you and your sister, not knowing it would be the origin of endless dispute.
You’re three, having received three flying gifts, two helicopters and a plane, although one looked like an RV with wings.
You’re suddenly three and your sister is five, I’m 67, seeming to rush towards 68, these bones crackling at night,
Rather than glowing, this age does not call for helicopters,
Rather the comfort of home after a long voyage, as I wave good-bye to my husband who heads home, I am here listening to the family conversation in the next room, remembering those days, not so suddenly gone, seemingly
So long ago.
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