Id Actually Forgotten

It’s the little things, that remind me of my aunt, and how in some unusual way, she may still be alive, if only in the memory, a passing morning train, tea bags splaying suddenly, from unopened cupboards, I’d actually forgotten somehow, her favourite cup and saucer, with cracks down the side, pictures strewn in drawers, redolent of precious moments, framed photos in hallways, that move without a reason, car keys with fobs, that gather sand dune blobs, onion dome shaped artefacts, for a chosen tartan table top, that cast away diary, which kept the gleam, in those expressive eyes of hers