For as long as ever, it seemed to me,
Great Aunt Jen had lived in that cottage,
a turn-of-the-century time warp
except for electric light and radio.
Dutifully, I raised my seven year old face
to receive a parting kiss, though I suspect
she was reluctant too. It was the thing to do.
Her ankle- length, black dress smelt of cologne
and something less pleasant I couldn’t name.
Leaning a hand on my shoulder, more for
balance than endearment, she kissed me.
I forget the kiss, remember only the brush
of those dreadful whiskers and the intense
effort to smile and not to flinch.