Cornelia

She was old from the day I met her,

with soup-can curled hair and wire framed glasses,

She charmed me with her sweet tea and terrible math,

Until I was hers,

The little birds she loved,

became the little birds I loved,

and she taught me to hum their quiet calls

when we fed them their syrupy red nectar,

her clothes were mine,

but only on afternoons I played dress-up,

in her walk-in closet

full of water color cardigans

and clunky heels

through foggy baths,

with rose-shaped bars of soap,

and powdery lotion,

my skin began to absorb her scent.

my voice took on her tone,

her thick southern tongue,

spoken softly over Sunday gossip,

became my own

through millions of pastel bird houses,

we spent hours poring over with paint brushes,

and the small doll clothes,

we’d sew,

I stole her artistic nature,