The Aunts by: Nicole Busch

The Aunts

By: Nicole Busch

There was a phase when they got together

and laughed in voices that sound like cherry

trees and grape vines on old English houses,

and sometimes they wore big, floppy hats with bows

and go to Texas in the summertime,

and we would have a card game tournament.

They will always be the ones who linger

and say “just a little bit longer please,”

even as we make our way to the door,

or stand by the waiting cars, they remember

someone—a friend we never knew—and sigh,

all of them together, like the breeze in

the palm trees on the beaches where we stayed,

a place I remember—especially

the delicious food and the soft chirping

that overwhelmed the sunlit porch and beach.

It is a very distant remembrance,

that was almost a decade ago and

I was dressed in pigtails with pink bows

which mimicked the hats upon their heads,

and palm tree sundresses imitating

the trees as they sway gently in the breeze.

They would paint my nails the color of the

ocean and make sand castles on the beach,

pretending they were the queens walking down

the beach, like a lion walking in the

jungle or a shark swimming through oceans.

I have gotten older and lived through many

experiences, some which remind me

of the little girl and the Texas summer days.

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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.