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