she usually kept butterfingers,
those little 8 to a pack ones,
but sometimes it was baby ruths,
and sometimes chocolate so expensive we were afraid to take a bite,
but always there were butterfingers in a bowl
and she would insist you have one or two.
her house is off to your left in this image,
and i am dangling late october toes over her part of the creek,
suspended between it and the golden catawba overhead,
dropping leaves everywhere,
each leaf counting down the afternoons of autumn.
today was sitting on my shoulders as i left work.
i needed cokes, cat food, bread, yogurt,
and i also needed chocolate,
but i didn't know that until i passed an 8 pack of baby ruths
hanging out on an aisle.
a little something for my soul.
taking me back to evenings spent in her house,
a friend always there.
at the end i'd go over to check on her,
making sure she was okay;
saying it was for her,
but doing it for me also.
i hadn't had one since she died.
they tasted of our friendship,
and i felt the weight of the day move away.