Aunt Bea’s Knees
Words By Wendie Donabie, Art By Gudi
Aunt Bea’s fleshy, wrinkled knees
grinned back at me like Cheshire cats—
two mute and smiling cousins.
I toddled about on my own,
knowing if I toppled over,
I could grab those solid, stable knees.
She sang nursery rhymes to entertain me,
her contagious laugh rippling through the living room ,
while I bounced on her brilliant, ever-present knees.
I wrapped my arms around her neck
giggling, drawing comfort from those knees,
the air filled with the fragrance of Lavender.
Ring around a Rosie.
I dropped to the ground
Squealing with delight.
Sing a song of Sixpence.
My hand flew up to my face
as gentle fingers snatched off my nose.
Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.
One day the singing and bouncing stopped.
Her knees gone forever.
Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clemens.
I sensed her presence—the faint scent of Lavender,
“Aunt Bea?” I called out.
Here comes the candle to light you to bed.
In the still silence
the chill air embraced me
London Bridge had fallen down.