In the morning I go out
to fill the feeder for my
aunt, the air so still and
cold it almost crackles,
and we sit in porch chairs,
yellow blankets pulled up
to our chins, gazing at
the river trees shawled in
mist. She reminisces of
the friends she used to have,
the times she had growing up
with them, each one mapped
deep in her memory. I'd known
them once before, listening,
settling back and finding the
places in her voice: Warner's
Hot Springs, the Fall Brook
tennis club, the air heavy with
the incense of cedars. Savoring
the tales she has to tell me,
she resurrects them in all their
detail, shares  moments of their
lives with me over raspberry
scones and tea. I knew Charlotte,
I knew Louise; their faces, their
kindnesses coming back to me,
the sound of my aunt's words
quietly flowing by me. Some
springs of remembrance, like
the ones in her heart, never go
dry, they only get riper like
the sun flowering in the sky.

© by Bobbi Sinha-Morey.
Used here with the author's permission