Going Dolally

Here’s our maiden aunt, not fooling anyone.
She had a nice life, traveled exotic places,
sang in community theater, line danced three
times a week. She prepped her meals on weekends,
ate at five every night – boeuf bourguignon, ratatouille –
why go out to dinner? She fancied herself like Julia,
threw a yearly party, all the family, Christmas week,
in a house never changed in ninety years.
Father was born here, had his tonsils out
on the kitchen table. The room is a museum:
white metal sink picked up at Sears, ripple top,
a cupboard for Ajax and Brillo pads. The stove’s
on the opposite wall, no counters to rest a dish.
We don’t know how she did it. Now there are
threatening notices on the chesterfield, on
grandmother’s mahogany table, on the olive carpet.
She's won a million dollars, hangs around waiting
for each call. DON’T TELL, they warn her,
but we find out. You’ll ruin it, she says, when we
tell her it’s a scam. She begs us not to worry, reminds
us she worked for Gillette, covers her ears like the wise
monkey, and wires money – 16 thousand, 80 thousand.
It flies out the door. She borrows on the house, feeds us lies.
My brother keeps her busy while I shuffle
through the cabinet hunting for a doctor’s name.
Her hair is bitter black; coils escape like bed springs.
She drives her red Mustang (we found out it’s not insured)
to Walmart to buy gift cards for strangers
and can’t remember how to get home.