with cheeks like stark coastal
cliffs and hollow blue eyes, framed
with drifts of mink-colored hair.
I don’t look very much like her.
My hair curls, auburn, around
a full, heart-shaped face, and
my eyes are brown. Or, to be
more creative, burnt umber. Nothing
like hers, so maybe I’m mistaken
about her identity. Is she my mother?
Is she the one who christened me
Autumn Rose Shepherd? Pretty
name. Wish I could live up to it.
AUNT CORA INSISTS
I am pretty. But Aunt Cora
is a one-woman cheering section.
Thank goodness the grandstands
aren’t completely empty.
I’m kind of a lone wolf, except
for Cherie, and she’s what you
might call a part-time friend.
We hang out sometimes, but
only if she’s got nothing better
going on. Meaning no ballet recitals
or play rehearsals or guy-of-the-day
to distract her from those.
But Aunt Cora is always there,
someone I can count on, through
chowder or broth, as Grandfather says.
Old Texas talk for “thick or thin.”