my aunt

My Aunt A Sunday of yore is still visible floats around my mind at the edges of memories send signals, how much I loved her, but she had taken the train to visit her father A Sunday that had no worries about tomorrow  other than if Inter café closed early, I would  arrive too late I walked in familiar streets thinking, happy thought Suddenly, I was outside my aunt's house she was of the festive sort, a great talker, not for her to spend a Sunday reading books; Sunday was also, the day she baked coco macrons What a great day, drinking coffee, eating cakes and smoking cigarettes, the damnation of smoking had not entered our world going to the café Inter, I walked through the park that bathed in golden light, yes it was a great day to be alive