Marie

This will be Marie’s last winter. Her face is crooked. The wind changed and it got stuck that way. Her hands are like tiny bones in a bag, dwarfed as she puts both of hers into one of mine. Her voice comes out of her throat as though it were being dragged over sand-paper. She’s withered since the summer. More leaves have fallen. Her trunk is overcome by its own slight weight. Her limbs are more bent. She used to use her legs. Now she use a nurse and a chair with wheels. She’s all knuckles and creases now. The sun left town today, and I don’t think she’ll be here when he gets back. I won’t see the sun for six months. Marie may see it in weeks. Marie will find summer before I do.