When Aunt Anita got word from the clinic
that the cancer was fanning outward
like a web of newly shattered glass,
planned a get together for family and friends,
an informal wake that she would attend,
and which she dubbed -- not without a touch
of gallows humor -- her last supper.
She arrived in a ball gown, sequined and sparkling,
her long dark hair newly styled, flitting
from table to table, bar stool to bar stool,
glasses raised and clinking, remembering both
the good times and the hard times with
those she knew -- and she knew nearly everyone.
She was their confidante, keeper of their
stories, their sorrows, and secrets.
The next morning she slipped quietly into
a coma, one long dream receding into
another, never again to wake.
Born into nothing, into a town so insignificant
that no one had bothered to name it,
she left this world, nonetheless, dressed to the nines,
a benevolent ruler with a Louisville slugger
tucked behind the bar, just in case.
She left, quite simply, glowing.
