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She Forgot to Leave MAG
She left me her ruby-red tulips
and her freshly mulched garden
with its ripe tomatoes and basil.
But she forgot to leave our evenings
together in the kitchen,
eating overcooked macaroni on plastic plates,
complaining about those Republicans.
She left me her favorite crystal dishes,
the ones she insisted be limited
for special occasions only,
and a brand-new bottle of Dawn dish detergent.
But she forgot to leave
her glass of white Zinfandel
she enjoyed while watching “Seinfeld”
in my father’s La-Z-Boy
while I sat beside her feet
sipping on a Yoo-Hoo.
She left me her wooden white music box,
a pair of diamond earrings
that were too flashy for her taste,
and a silver tennis bracelet
my father bought her for their 25th anniversary.
But she forgot to take her navy Nike running shoes
that she laced up every Saturday morning
for our jog to the Starbucks
on the corner of 5th and 27th.
She left her sapphire cotton robe
hanging on the hook in the bathroom,
her cinnamon-scented body lotion by the bed,
and her Holiday Inn notepad
sitting blankly on her nightstand.
But she forgot to leave
our car rides to the city
when we would fight over the radio station
always compromising on the oldies channel,
rolling the windows down
and belting out Beatles songs
as the wind tussled our charcoal curly hair.
She left her cockeyed reading glasses from Walgreens
resting upon the latest
Janet Evanovich novel,
and her collection of menorahs
in a blue Tupperware box
next to the dining room table.
But she forgot to leave
our lazy Sunday mornings
spent tangled up in our down comforters ’til 11,
then straight to the kitchen,
still in our fluffy pink slippers,
awaiting the sight of a fresh batch of
the world’s greatest chocolate-chip pancakes
and a Bugs Bunny mug full of milk.
She left her gravestone in the ground,
her Star of David on her dresser,
and a bag of her favorite
fun-sized Snickers unopened.
She forgot to leave
Her soothing songs
that scared away the monsters,
her warm embrace
that shielded me from the bullies,
and her tender touch
that once would have dried
these tears falling against
my pale cheeks.
by Rachel Maimon, Buffalo Grove, IL
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