It's always comedy when they gather
Their stories belong on a stage somewhere
With an audience, boozed up and lively
Age and experience hasn't taught well
They gossip wearing hats, with skirts too small
Each holds a wine glass, it helps with chatter
Life lessons they offer, not holding back
The gritty details of their long gone past
My mother giggles and tries to fit in
She is so different from her sisters
They live lives consumed by scandal and fun
but she chose a family, a husband and son
The liquor flows and I see in her eyes
Longing for action, a taste of their lives
Family gatherings always bring her fear
The welcome her, and she is one of them
At peace and content, like a kid again
They laugh, and dance, and cook in the kitchen
Naturally, it becomes one big mess
The food, left unattended, dries and burns
Bottles are empty, and words start to slur
Blame is jumping from woman to woman
It lands on my mother, she accepts it
The aroma of tension fills the house
Excuses to leave arise one by one
Soon they've all left, leaving behind a stench
The look I see as she starts to clean
Is one of sadness, but also relief
Each time it's the same, but the look remains
That is what I'll remember, wine, and pain
________________________________________________________________
The Aunts by Joyce Sutphen
I like it when they get together
and talk in voices that sound
like apple trees and grape vines,
and some of them wear hats
and go to Arizona in the winter,
and they all like to play cards.
They will always be the ones
who say “It is time to go now,”
even as we linger at the door,
or stand by the waiting cars, they
remember someone—an uncle we
never knew—and sigh, all
of them together, like wind
in the oak trees behind the farm
where they grew up—a place
I remember—especially
the hen house and the soft
clucking that filled the sunlit yard.
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