On Sundays, I am the sponge.
From the moment I pull up and she is not upstairs waiting to be ushered, but seated in the car, unveiled by the garage door in perfect posture. Red lipstick in place, ready. Her eyes sparkle like Mrs. Claus, but I am learning better.
While others mentally sift through the belongings of those they are waiting to die, I am driving her to Sunday School...making a list of other things I want to inherit.
Not the green couch or the bourbon tumblers.
The jazz paintings on the wall, or her collection of bibles (well...maybe those I would keep).
But rather, I wonder how to take pieces of her...of who she is, and wear them like a dress we share.
Different fit. Different bodies.
Beauty, autonomy, defiance expressed my way. Borrowed from her closet.
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