The old warned us there’s deprivation
that worsens with time.
Parents, pets, friends--all we love--
carried away
and our own sweet bodies
a shock in the mirror.
They did not mention a sunset on the Bay
could bring more peace than a
striving young heart
could know
just by placing one foot after the other
along the pebbled beach,
my friend laughing beside me;
a picnic of lamb chops and mango waiting
in my backpack for a shady spot.
Everything needed provided.
But on this sunset my friend turns her face
from the glow and says,
I‘ve got 15 summers left,
if i'm lucky.
So she plans her summers with care now.
Each a precious stone kept safe from thieves.
I was angry at my mother for not coming
that month I lay pinned to a hospital bed.
But how could I know it was her last summer?
A summer of curated movements.
I wish I had not argued with my man that June
he tripped on the sidewalk
when it took precious summer days to heal.
We did not know it was his last June.
How could we have known that in October
the sun would set at six and not rise again?
One by one they walked out of this house—
or were carried out.
The oldest daughter, then her sister, brother
my mother,
……..my husband, my dear, my man, my angel.
And now the final leaving--our boy's packing
and this house enlarges as with every departure.
It's a castle now: ceilings sky high, hallway
a cavern--the whole place a relic,
unsound and useless.
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