For the Aunt Whose Heart Stopped

I dreamed about you for years
after: you’d come to me from
a shadow to ask where the tea
was, the definition of firmament,
the distance between earth and
some unnamed star. You were
never my mother, mother figure,
my first introduction to dying.
When they ask if I believe in
the other side, I tell them how
you appeared to me, black hair
just above your ears, skin
freckled from sun, and of course
they think I believe in god.
They order another round of
beer, unaware how they’ve
brought you back to life, your
perfume wafting through the bar
you’d never be caught dead in.
I remember the way doctors said
night terrors, as though seeing
you were terror enough to break
the night into pieces. The part
I remember is waking up
to a whisper, telling you I’m
sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry for not
wanting your god the way you
hoped. You’re afraid I won’t
find you in the end, but here
you are again on the stool next
to me, singing a shot of whiskey
into water, still hungry.