by Brenna Leishman

I remember my Aunt Andrea
She sighed and smiled with every inhalation.
Her lungs collapsed with every worry
And mended together with every blessing.

I remember comfort.
She gave me the simple pleasures
that I could only endear in her presence

Chocolate milkshakes for cooperation
PG-13 movies at dusk
Pizza for breakfast
Cold soda after 10pm

I remember my hands clasped tight.
I beautifully begged
and pitifully pleaded
just to spend the night
sleeping on her blue suede smokey couch.

I remember the old XL cotton
that wrapped around my body
as I tossed and turned to fall asleep.

I remember slipping into my day clothes.
Returning the shirts with sad soaked necklines.
Tears building walls behind my eyes.
Damp cheekbones.
Softly speaking that I wanted my mother to pick me up.

I remember the promise,
to save my pizza for breakfast.