I recall the cloak <br />of perfume she always wore <br />which lingered <br />when she left the room. <br />Mum used to say she laid it on with a trowel, <br />but I liked it <br />and the glamorous way <br />she smoked, <br />biting the end of her long gold tipped holder <br />with perfect teeth. <br /> <br />Her voice was smoky, <br />like lauren Bacall. <br />She adored art <br />and poetry - <br />sentimental <br />in the nicest possible way. <br />She would read Dr Dolittle and Peter Pan <br />and get all choked up at the sad bits, <br />embarrassing herself and us. <br /> <br />Their wedding photo shone from the mantelpiece. <br />They were so beautiful, <br />she and Tissie, my curly headed uncle <br />with his ukulele and his perfect pitch <br />and his melancholic disposition <br />and his love of chooks. <br /> <br />She asked us to call her Aunt Jean <br />but we never did. <br />She was always Jeanie <br />and young, <br />much younger than the others. <br />(Mum was forty when I was born) <br />Beautiful and elegant <br />with pencilled brows <br />that she would raise disapprovingly <br />when she was cross. <br /> <br />After Tissie died <br />there were years of osteoporosis <br />and emphysema, <br />but she always had friends in for drinks at five <br />and she painted her nails <br />even on the day she died.<br /><br />Alison Cassidy<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/jeanie-t/
