Aunt Adelaide

Aunt Adelaide was short and fat, but chic.
Her fashionable, knee–length frock,
dark blue with orange braid,
hung straight from bust to hem

Her dark eyes often smiled,
and when she laughed
her plump hand gave your shoulder
a little humorous push.

She came to stay one Easter,
shared my bed
wearing a flimsy nightdress
trimmed with lace and lilac ribbon.

She took her corsets off,
set free her flesh
like fragrant cushions.
I breathed her scent all night.

The chocolate egg she brought me
lay in a basket of mauve straw
beside a round green bottle
— lavender–water, tied with a purple bow.

For years the bottle
stood on my chest of drawers
too precious to be used, holding, for me,
the essence of all I hoped to be.