Last night was prolific as it was difficult.
I wrote 4 poems in my #4 apartment.
I had 4 cups of tea.
And my dead aunt came to visit me.
My father saw his dead father last week in my old bedroom at home. He was standing by the window and said: “Lee is still crying.” Lee is the uncle I had written about here who just recently and suddenly passed away of a heart attack. And last night my aunt Shirley said, “I’m still crying.” Part of me believes all of these voices and visions by myself and my father to be subconscious happenings, but I wonder about that when it is so real and my body gets a feeling that is truly indescribable,
a feeling I never feel unless these “visitations” occur.
This photo is my Aunt Shirley’s senior picture. In her 30s
(and I am 30 now) she wore black eyeliner
and mascara to further set off what she called / calls the “dark moons” under her eyes.
And now as I am 30 using cold cream and eye makeup as she did,
our resemblance speaks to something odd and ethereal.
I don’t know what, how, or why really.
But I aim to someday figure it out.
