"I stole her nervous hands / her addiction to sweet, soft smells"

"From my mother I inherited my looks and a tendency to migraine. From my father I inherited an optimism which did not leave me until recently." Joan Didion

I stole her quietly waiting on the grocer's line

reading the covers of magazines like a tourist

I stole her nervous hands

her addiction to sweet, soft smells

I stole her short, yellow fingers; her fear

I stole what she generously gave

I stole $15 from her purse, her last $15

spent so quickly, whips of remorse

I smile, opening her varnished music box

desperate for what is inside

I stole her stoicism but not her tearfulness

standing over the frozen soil

I stole her nail biting, the bruises and benign wens trailing her arms

I consider stealing her walking away

from where the grave should have been dug

her passive choices, her hollow body

rides over each crumbling ocean wave

I steal some more money from her wallet.