It is that time of year when the sun passes over her birth date, and another year goes by with only memories left of her (or so one would suspect). She always said that we are immortal in the hearts and minds of our loved ones.
It’s been years since I’ve met her in dreams, attending her own funeral, invisible to the eyes of others. She grieved for their grief; it was their loss after all, not hers. She was some place else, some place warmer and more peaceful. I was greeted with a bright smile from her upon recognition of her spirit. “They all think I am dead,” she would say to me, and it was understood that she wasn’t really. Sometimes I would feel myself transported to that black limousine where I sat in some soft dress and small shoes, peering out the window at the gloom. I felt a bit of the black seep into my eyes; I probably was aware of what was happening even if I was unable to articulate my feelings. I knew she wasn’t coming back.
I wish I had more memories or at least access to more of them. Few things stand out in my mind: her house, her food, her gifts, the feel of being in her presence.
I’ll set a place for her at dinner, and drink tea or wine from her china.
The Taurus moon is waning; I will seek quiet in the arms of night.
I never forget that I come from a line of lionesses.
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