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Auntie Vi
She was the flower of the neighborhood
young, petal-fresh, capricious yet serene
skirts billowing in the breeze yet demure
she was a violet, a giggle fluttering by
Cyril, the elder brother, suit pressed, necktie jazzy
caught her in his net of charm and after
a brief engagement, took her for his wife
and drove her away in his 1930 white sporty motor car
Les, his younger brother waved them off, choking back regret
as down through the years he visited on holidays
met them at family get-togethers, exchanging polite
restrained hello-goodbyes – how are the children doing?
Never divulging for a careless moment the jealousy
that burgeoned in his heart, the flower he’d wished
in youthful fantasy somehow to make his own
Years passed – the brothers moved to different cities
almost lost contact. Cyril prospered, became a self made
businessman, put on weight and raised a bevy of
daughters, all as beautiful as their mother
Then calamity struck. One beautiful summer Sunday
just before the family’s usual sumptuous lunch
Cyril dropped dead on the tennis court – an ischemic stroke
the doctor said and comforted – a quick and easy way to go
Les’ second wife was next to pass away
and after the traditional year of mourning he realized at 65
his teenage dream when widower and widow met
renewed their friendship and then moved in together
There in Violet’s small apartment we would find them
after their simple supper, chatting about this and that
she with her knitting for the grandchildren, he with
his crossword puzzle or his notebook full of scribblings
After turning out the lights they retired to separate
bedrooms, which as his son, I thought it strange
yet never dared to question – the memory of the
elder brother still occupying his rightful place in her heart
A few short months then passed quite peacefully
and then one Sunday morning – 6 a.m. a phone call
Aunty Vi was on the line – please come, your father’s
passed away, Johannes found him when he brought his morning tea
A heart attack, the doctor said – perhaps it’s better that way –
and having wept for both brothers, Violet went on to live into
her nineties, a fading flower yet still probably the most
attractive nonagenarian in the flower beds of the town
© Johnmichael Simon
2016
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