She was not cold and I was

still a girl. Okay, I'll never

recover that. She was tall. She

had black hair, her skin tanned fast,

dark blue eyes. I can't remember

her teeth. She liked to wear bright

colors, used the word sweetie

ironically. I'll be seventy,

her dead forty-three years, wake

angry and weeping still. She comes

down the stairs wearing black

and white. She comes down the stairs

smiling and the room swerves.

I'm tiny in her arms, as if

flat against a steep mountain.

The sky is strong, pulls at me,

but she holds. Understand I don't

believe this will ever change.