Monday, April 29, 2013








Happy Birthday from your Not-So-Little Girl
















You wore the uniform of the elderly
A band aid on your elbow and a striped polo tee
A dark belt hiking up your faded old slacks
Your basement packed with things from the past
Inside your clothes
There was too much room
You had never been this skinny
You had never been so cold
I will never again hear your stories retold
Now that you’re gone
I see you everywhere
In slow moving vans
Pocket protectors and grey hair
But none of these strangers have your sputtering laugh
Or twenty-five napkins of penned physics graphs
None of them read me the Little House books
Or made TV dinners when Mom couldn’t cook
You ate Quaker Oat Squares
Sat on cracked vinyl chairs
Used felt tipped pens
Had church choir friends
Liked big band tunes
Duct taped vacuums
But now your basement is empty
And your clothes have been donated
There’s no more chocolate cake for your birthday
And I don’t feel like your little girl anymore


 - My father died from chronic lymphocytic leukemia October 10th, 2009.
   I wrote this poem on his birthday the following summer.
 

 

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