Cranberry Injection

For John Hink I left your stool in my kitchen corner where you sat, a crooked grin on your weathered face that had seen a hundred sunsets. Fields you tilled by horse-drawn plows now contracted to clusters of London Bespoke Suits leveraging corn oil markets.Patiently you'd appear before supper as I made my way through the pantry pulling canned goods I lovingly processed and freshies I gathered from neat rows in my garden. We ate in silence, knowing words had long-since lost their weight. Clouds drift over our final resting place now, our souls drifting peacefully along, only visiting in dreams. ...your sister Ellie 6/9/20