Poem: At My Aunt's Memorial Service

[betweensunandmoon]

There are lots of chairs all in rows.
I am on the end of one row,
as far away from the podium as possible.
A few people get up to speak
and share fond memories.
I am not one of them.
My aunt always talked to me
like I was a particularly unintelligent five-year-old,
no matter how old I got
or how much I learned.
Everyone around me is crying.
They are mourning a person I did not know.
Let them mourn.
They are lucky to have known that person.
I don't belong here.
I would bolt for the door if I could.
Even though I was invited,
I am an intruder.