By Kathleen Goldblatt
June 7, 2023
We brought her chrysanthemums. On Sunday mornings
I filled a tin bucket from the loose steel spigot,
carried it down pebbled paths,
watered flowers at the stone.
Trying not to get grime on my white church gloves,
I traced the sunken letters of her name—my name—
in grey granite.
We stood at the close-cropped mound,
heads low, hands folded. The river below
bent in a slow arc. I wanted the silence
to end, wanted her to know I was there.
I made a window in the grass
to see the white lace, what she held in her hands.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
