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Marjorie Buettner

Snowing Again

. . . my sister asks me if i put her in a pretty dress and my stomach sinks—my aunt cremated in nothing pretty, her death not pretty, her beautiful hair in disarray, the I.V. bruises on her arm, the way she looked at me through her pain at the end of another heart attack, her last couple of breaths so far away from each other like an echo thrown from the top of a hill barely reaching the other side . . .

snowing again—
my aunt's hats cupped
within each other