Nothing could disturb her stare at the wall,
Everyday, from dawn to night fall.
Motionless she sat, on a rocking chair,
Creaky now, and worn with wear.

Contemplating someone’s return,
Whose identity is her only concern.
Whether the Phantom,
Is still as she might fathom,

Or her imagination run wild,
She cared for me as a child.
Soon, into the past she’ll descend,
Eyes searching, as if to defend.

If not for the daily answering of nature’s call,
An artistic statuette carved in fall,
Sits gazing at nothing in particular,
Some say she looks pretty angular.

Enfin, family is family,
My Aunt, she’ll be for posterity.