I remember her.

 

The crochet needles red and green

 

    Salsa dancing between her crinkled fingers.

Her best friend was Pinocchio

 

    Who wished and yearned to become a real boy. 

 

My breakfast always served,

 

    A bagel turned black that felt of rock and ash. 

 

Its taste like dirt,

 

    Bitter but full of wonders invisible to the naked eye. 

 

The smell of her only perfume,

 

    A combination of compassion and cigarettes.

 

 

 

 

I remember her.

 

A wanted youthful palm intertwining with an older one,

 

    She held 50 years over my 12.

 

The last time I almost touched her veiny limb that hung limp from a metal frame,

 

    But didn’t out of fear and confusion.

The sound of a beautifully painful cacophony

 

    When the damage of the smoke was far too much.