The Aunt By Whitney Osburn

The Aunt

By Whitney Osburn

I like it when we get together and

She talks in a shrill piercing voice that sounds

Like finger nails scrapping on the chalk board,

She likes to wear flip flops in the summer

And take her fat Chihuahua on long walks

Sometimes pushing her dog in a stroller

She will always be the person cleaning,

Doing dishes hour after hour,

Even as we are walking out the door

Or while we are playing family games,

She makes us peanut butter and jelly

Using her own homemade strawberry jam

It tastes like a mouthful of sweet summer.

While bees buzz around in the soft blue sky

Just like those bees tattooed on her ankle

Each bee represents niece or nephew.

She always cooks us holiday dinners

Her pumpkin roll is to die for, it is

A big round roll with a creamy filling.

Her two pets mean most everything to her,

The two small dogs are named sophi and tug

She goes to bed around eight every night,

And wakes up around five in the morning,

Her days start off relatively early.

 

Her very small home is on a big hill side,

Where we would always run and play all day,

Where my cousin grew up- a place that I

Remember- especially her comfy

Couch and chair that sit in her living room,

That overlooks a gorgeous hillside view

 

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The Aunts

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.