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She covers more territory in one day
of window shopping than all her grandchildren
running after her, too tired for another store.

In the dark after everyone else sleeps,
we laugh together about how someone looked
so ridiculous in bright yellow and fuscia.

I feel her smile
linger in the room like the smell of coffee
or the broiled liver she craves.

I reach to poke her gurgling snores
but want to hug her, tell her she is my favorite
and I am glad I came out of her, secondhand.

Two generations is not enough
to separate us.
And now, neither is her death.

-Judith Pordon

Judith Pordon - Publication Credits

Judith Pordon - Publication Credits