The confitures
The coconut candies
Family recipes
A history lost
I rarely speak her name now
Though her name is one of my own
And I never thought to ask any of it
But what did I know of mortality at a safe and happy eleven?
I wish I had
Now, of course.
Now that it's useless and impossible to ask
Now that my eyes are clear and my heart open
But the memories
The sound of her voice
The flow of her nightgowns
The scent of the confitures
The gritty, too sweet, to perfect texture of the coconut candies
Those are mine forever
