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.
Softly speaking that I wanted my mother to pick me up.
I remember the promise,
to save my pizza for breakfast.