Where You Once Were

2/11/19

There is a wrought iron bench on the front verandah. 

Foreign to me.

A nasturtium grows wildly, 

tracing the wall 

up towards the window 

that would 

howl in the evening wind. 

The winds 

would keep you awake. 

But your aching body, 

your racing mind - 

these, too, 

would keep you awake.

Mum, 

there are people living in your house 

that we don’t know. 

People that don’t know 

the life 

and grief 

that passed through the hallway. 

People that don’t know 

the nights you spent 

tracing the walls with your hands 

to keep your balance. 

People that don’t know 

the number 

of small pots 

of plain pasta 

I made for you on the gas stove. 

Little ramekins of fettuccine 

that you would only eat half of.

These people don’t know 

of the daily turmoil you faced 

not knowing 

if you were getting better 

or worse. 

Not knowing 

if you’d see it through 

to the end of the year, 

to the day I got married, 

to the sale of your beloved business 

and joy of flying.

There’s a wrought iron bench on the front verandah.

I hope they experience 

the joy of sunsets from that place. 

I hope they enjoy 

the nasturtium that you planted, 

growing wildly 

and tracing the wall below the window 

that brought light 

into your room. 

I hope they enjoy 

the sound of rain on the roof, 

the ticking of the gas heater 

in the front room 

during cooler nights. 

I hope that they, 

like us, 

do family things. 

The easy things 

and the hard things.

I hope that they can sense 

that a life 

so beautiful 

was momentarily stationed there.