the last time i saw ella may
was in the kitchen
of her home
after the funeral.
every corner of the house a memory
every smell, photograph, cousin
a reminder of what we all lost
overnight.
like a rip in a wedding dress;
a torn collection of
people
who all loved the same woman
that was born in a log cabin in montana.
a moment in the kitchen, away from the
tense laughter,
the uncertain, broken
remnants
of an entire
family,
bursting at the seams;
pink leg warmers, ice cream cones, gingersnap cookies
the scent of old china, dust,
and memories in her absence.
a bowl lies on the counter top
like a gift to be unwrapped
like a letter never opened;
untouched
she put it there for sunday
as she always did
and the last gift ella may
left me
tastes of
ginger
7:15 pm mst
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