She was alive last Christmas.

Her lips stained purple
Hands cradled a glass.
“Hey Sista!” she greeted
Me. We embraced.

She laughed.
She was full.
She had love.
She had life.

Yet untouched by cancer,
She feared nothing then.
Just another in a string of holidays,
Like unbroken bulbs.

Not the last.


The Witty Biddy


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