my aunt

My Aunt
A Sunday of yore is still visible
floats around my mind at the edges of memories
send signals, how much I loved her, but she
had taken the train to visit her father
A Sunday that had no worries about tomorrow 
other than if Inter café closed early, I would 
arrive too late
I walked in familiar streets thinking, happy thought
Suddenly, I was outside my aunt's house
 she was of the festive sort, a great talker, not for her t
o spend a Sunday reading books; Sunday was
also, the day she baked coco macrons
What a great day, drinking  coffee, eating cakes and
smoking cigarettes, the damnation of smoking had
not entered our world
going to the café Inter, I walked through the park
that bathed in golden light, yes it was a great day
to be alive