Aunt.

She is her.

Mostly noun, given,

And she is an English teacher and shall berate me should she find this;

but she is her. Beyond grammatical repair, or rule of prose.

I do not care, for she is why I am me.

And if she does see this- you are her.

My aunt- a woman more mother then extended family,

a woman who's heart can break and bend.

A human so giving nobody notices until her efforts are missing,

a human so sweet the earth cried the very day she got sick.

I remember it too well. I remember about her more than myself, like a broken bone.

It aches now, her pain- my bone.

Her feelings are mine- only I feel them.

I feel them miles away, and do I feel them deeply.

I react how she cannot, due to her heart.

I react when she is not sure how to.

I bow my head at her anger, and revel in her praise.

If my grandmother is the queen, my aunt is her heir beyond birthright.

She spent the last of her serotonin on my laughter.

She spent the last of her smiles on us all.

And I gasp from the severity of the loss.

She is still with us- which is why I reflect her pain.

She is sick. But she is her.

Within my scar tissue exists her- within my flesh,

within whatever is good to me is given by her.

Love is her. She is love.