one copy

she asked
you if you wanted
tea.
a cookie
or two, perhaps
a pastry
warmed
in her oven.
she was old.
alone.
a long driveway
took you
to her home.
she slid
her book in
front of you.
I want you to
read this,
she said. tell
me what you think.
the papers,
unbound,
were yellowed
and frayed.
editing marks
in red
ink littered
the sheets
like drops
of blood.
take it home with
you, she said.
but be careful
with it. it's
my only copy.
it was her life.
you loved it.