I recall the cloak
of perfume she always wore
which lingered
when she left the room.
Mum used to say she laid it on with a trowel,
but I liked it
and the glamorous way
she smoked,
biting the end of her long gold tipped holder
with perfect teeth.

Her voice was smoky,
like lauren Bacall.
She adored art
and poetry -
sentimental
in the nicest possible way.
She would read Dr Dolittle and Peter Pan
and get all choked up at the sad bits,
embarrassing herself and us.

Their wedding photo shone from the mantelpiece.
They were so beautiful,
she and Tissie, my curly headed uncle
with his ukulele and his perfect pitch
and his melancholic disposition
and his love of chooks.

She asked us to call her Aunt Jean
but we never did.
She was always Jeanie
and young,
much younger than the others.
(Mum was forty when I was born)
Beautiful and elegant
with pencilled brows
that she would raise disapprovingly
when she was cross.

After Tissie died
there were years of osteoporosis
and emphysema,
but she always had friends in for drinks at five
and she painted her nails
even on the day she died.

Alison Cassidy

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/jeanie-t/