Aurie

and other poems on loss

R. DUDLEY BARTON & SON FUNERAL HOME

131 SUMMER STREET - P.O. BOX 265

ADAIRSVILLE, GA 30103

770-773-3711

Mrs. Aurie Bob Pickard Brookshire, age 76, of Adairsville, passed away Wednesday, September 6, 2023, at Floyd Atrium Medical Center surrounded by her loved ones.

Aurie was born in Cartersville, GA, April 6, 1947, daughter of the late Robert Leonard Pickard and Bobbie Hester Pickard. Mrs. Brookshire was also preceded in death by her daughter, Bobbie Steward. She was a member of Poplar Springs Methodist Church. Aurie loved traveling and spending time with her family. She was a loving wife, mother and grandmother who will be missed.

Survivors include her loving husband of 61 years, Dennie Brookshire; children, Denise Blalock (Kevin), Dana Brookshire Barton, and Dennie Brookshire, II; grandchildren, Kayla Quinn(Austin), Seth Brookshire, Jessica Davis (Michael), and Amber Wall; great grandchildren, Madison Broyles, Mason Roe, Trista Wheeler, Kennedy Wall, Brandon Reed, and DJ Brookshire.

Honoring Aurie's wishes she will be cremated.

R. Dudley Barton & Son Funeral Home, Adairsville, is in charge of funeral arrangements for Mrs. Aurie Bob Pickard Brookshire.

Your Logo

Here

Under over

developed arms of

thick, green hickory,

a single wide

is nestled on a half acre

divided

into segments by paper

thin walls,

a living room is

smothered with

fabric from the

highway; a childhood

bed is falling

through the floor, one leg

gnawed by rat teeth—

another childhood

dwelling

abandoned

filled by

stuffed Glad bags

forgotten forever ago,

and on the front porch,

beeer bottles

empty beer bottles

balanced on rotten

beams, hiding

dead beetles.

But in the red dirt

puffs passing by,

there’s love—

just dawning on me—

while listening

to the branches

above,

living with a

simple song

Hummin’ &

Hummin’

Hummin’ &

Hummin’

Hummin’ &

beer bottles

balanced on rotten

beams, hiding

dead beetles.

But in the red dirt

puffs passing by,

there’s love—

just dawning on me—

while listening

to the branches

above,

living with a

simple song

Hummin’ &

Hummin’

Hummin’ &

Hummin’

Hummin’ &

Hummin’

Hummin’ &

Hummin’

Hummin’ &

Hummin’

Hummin’ &

Hummin’

Hummin’ &

Hummin’

Hummin’ &

Hummin’

Hummin’ &

Hummin’

Hummin’ &

Hummin’

Hummin’ &

Hummin’

Hummin’ &

Hummin’

Hummin’ &

Hummin’

Hummin’ &

Hummin’

Hummin’ &

Aurie

From where you are, now,

can you see the wind

changing suddenly,

moving its way through the

Hickory trees, endlessly

enveloping itself around this

tip of Boyd’s Mountain.

That there’s darkness on this half acre:

grass devolving into a patch

of burnt trash—cardboard and glass

cortisone containers all half

destroyed, covered in ash.

Can you see how we made

the kitchen a shrine,

protecting the would-be

dinner. Greasy, rotten

fried chicken still sitting

on your cabinet.

How I

stand alone atop the

secret sunken-in spot

and think of taking a

bite of the day-old meat

before I’m hit with the

stench of Dennie’s

portable urinal;

bright yellow secretion,

swirling around plastic

like liquid sunshine.

stench of Dennie’s

portable urinal;

bright yellow secretion,

swirling around plastic

like liquid sunshine.

I bet you can see my mother—

your last-born baby—

chain-smoking a

lullaby to herself.

Can you hear the grey,

brushing between discolored dentures,

holding the faint pulse of a hymn,

unlike anything you heard

in the pews of the Poplar Springs

United Church.

Aurie,

tell me what you can see

and I’ll bury it in my chest—

hold it deep inside,

next to the

shortening telomeres,

and let memories expand

like cancer.

Aurie II

Aurie,

The bodies of this city are so narrow—in the car; my body is emaciated, alien after the doctor—tells me how to be a better person—screaming bloody murder at you, aiming for your face with pathetic things like the hairbrush and my stool and—Jason passes me the tv remote. The reflection of his dead mother’s face plays on the screen—my sister walks through—the basement of the Poplar Springs United Church is lit up darkness, as I listen to— Chris recounting his dying boyfriend succumbing to the disease and—you’re holding Itsy’s dead body against your stomach like Mary—Mary Frances, Joe fucking schmo; these rich motherfuckers all walk around on the balls of their feet; Daddy’s money— Debbie and Mama are with me in the pool, recollecting the scraps of my Daddy they have, remembering the way his—dick dies limp in my mouth the—second time I want to call you after your heart exploded, destroyed by some—one is walking down the street with a paper bag covering—blood covering Jason’s face in the parking lot, lying over the—baby photos exchanging hands. I can see Kayla’s braces shining back—and the stadium is a whole lot of red—religion sitting on the cusp of his teeth like a tooth—ache dividing this city, I can see the pain while I walk North Avenue and down to the—waters of the little park by the high school where we had my first birthday party—I want to rip off his skin and live—right on the front porch where you would lie to me about fishing trips, and the bible, and the—oxycontin prescriptions filling my childhood bedroom, breaking down the old body my—self.

I keep having the same dream:

Where we’re sitting in church,

listening to the people sing,

and when I look over at you,

I remember you’re still here

How could I ever forget?

As the sharp smell of dust and

Avon perfume mix, overwhelming

happiness settles, desperately needed.

You smile back with missing teeth,

hold my hand as we begin harmonizing.

Our voices— always so ugly together—

blend themselves and reverberate beautifully.

And in the car, whipping past all these

chicken farms, carpet plants, and paper mills,

singing about knowing the meaning of contentment

your body—the world—starts to evaporate around me—

back to a twin-sized bed, stuck in a city I can never love.

When I wake up, fully, I remember that death is permanence.