Her photos of generations loved,
posted beside the window,
small box of rings and jewel things,
faded silk flowers,
soft furnishings,
phone, novels.
Crucifix,
Bible.
All packed.
It’s a wonder
her bed’s
not gone.
Now I look, sound,
even think like her.
When will it be my turn?
What’s in between –
sunshine, rain –
before my landfall?
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