In her attic, hot with sweat
I look up at her desk.
The prettiest gel pens rolling around. 
Stamps Falling out of drawers
Ink packs stacked too high
Flowers pressed on paper
Shimmering in the small lamp light
A smile lit up her face whenever we were here
I never understood
How they said she was cruel and mean. 
She looked to me like a sad woman most times.
As I grew, I could see the slivers of disdain stitched in her brow.
At what point in her life did she
Keep turning left
When kindness was to the right?
What truth inside herself was she running from
For so long that it became who she was?
I ask her now as I sit next to her in death.
She never answers me.
I play her life forward and back,
All the pieces of her I’m missing, I’ll never know.
So I sit with her and explore
What it is that I have been running from
And if I’ve been turning left
When the path of life is to the right.