Day heaves darkness out of sight.
The trees remaining on this ordinary
street seem scattered, haphazard.
Disease has claimed so many of them.
They are so much older than us,
probably stronger too, survivors.
They stand in their stolid silence.
The bloom comes later,
but this later needs no help from us:
it blossoms by itself,
in due time. And then the city
will live again in its summer glory.
Our street is quiet in the morning.
A gray cat sleeps on our front steps
until I shoo him away. Barely visible,
birds linger on branches hanging
over our deck. Inside it is quiet,
because the house is large, large
enough for a family, but there are only
two of us here now. It once held a family
of five, but that is another story…
We have been very busy in the manner
of homeowners everywhere preparing
the house to match our vision of home.
We painted the walls of every room.
carpeted the floors, put bright
prints of Monet paintings in the living
room, furnished it with glittering things.
And everyday I remind myself I do not
believe in ghosts. But he shadows me.
Just past sixty, he lumbered over the floors
we covered, looked through windows we scrubbed
spotless, woke up to the same light streaming
across the kitchen. And I remind myself…
A suicide leaves nothing behind, he has –
erased himself. And we have so much left to do.
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