Like DNA, we weave close, then apart, then close again.
Donna Spence died after a long struggle with cancer. The last time I saw her, before I saw her dead body in the casket, was a while ago at the old WalMart. We talked about K Mart and Ames and the new WalMart. We both preferred Ames, which had closed to accommodate K Mart which had closed to accommodate WalMart. We met over these animal print and very stretchy, tight pajama gowns. Donna told me she had bought one and wore it as a dress, she suggested I also do so. I grabbed the leopard spotted one and I still have it although it does not look the same on me anymore, or I do not look the same in it, one or the other. Now I just wear it as a nightgown.
We talked for quite a while, catching up, as one does with these chance encounters. She asked what what I was doing and I told her I was a nurse. She told me she just found out she had cancer (I think uterine) and we talked about treatments, etc. It killed her. The words we spoke are all gone in the wind. My intermittant memory, the only record of girls who became women but never changed, really.
When I saw her at WalMart she was round and happy and womanly and filling out her nightgown dress beautifully. When I saw her in the casket she was skeletal and dead.
I choose to remember the spirit and personality that Donna was, servant to humankind, lively and vital and strong and wearing cool animal prints tight against her sexy body that turned it's back on her, and killed her.
Donna Spence died after a long struggle with cancer. The last time I saw her, before I saw her dead body in the casket, was a while ago at the old WalMart. We talked about K Mart and Ames and the new WalMart. We both preferred Ames, which had closed to accommodate K Mart which had closed to accommodate WalMart. We met over these animal print and very stretchy, tight pajama gowns. Donna told me she had bought one and wore it as a dress, she suggested I also do so. I grabbed the leopard spotted one and I still have it although it does not look the same on me anymore, or I do not look the same in it, one or the other. Now I just wear it as a nightgown.
We talked for quite a while, catching up, as one does with these chance encounters. She asked what what I was doing and I told her I was a nurse. She told me she just found out she had cancer (I think uterine) and we talked about treatments, etc. It killed her. The words we spoke are all gone in the wind. My intermittant memory, the only record of girls who became women but never changed, really.
When I saw her at WalMart she was round and happy and womanly and filling out her nightgown dress beautifully. When I saw her in the casket she was skeletal and dead.
I choose to remember the spirit and personality that Donna was, servant to humankind, lively and vital and strong and wearing cool animal prints tight against her sexy body that turned it's back on her, and killed her.
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