We entered you like a house,
blowing along
the white curtains.

In the kitchen
with its old aroma of pot roast,
in among the cannisters of tea,
the lavendered closets
with pillowed rows of pink soap,
boxes of cottonwool
& unfinished embroideries,

we said
how we'd like to be lived in
after our death.

Then we began to replace you,
seeping in like cave water,
changing your old order,
defending ourselves
with our own smells.

(I poured espresso
from your teapot,
hung black curtains
in your bathroom.)

Sometimes,
coming home suddenly,
I'd catch you,
your cheek as soft as willow tips,
shaking your head from side to side,
denying
the cancer that was eating you.

I knew
your ghost as my own wish
& wasn't frightened,
but you
refused to stay.

Now, armored by our walls of books,
paintings you wouldn't have approved
& foods you'd never taste,
we find ourselves
alone at last.

Yesterday
we visited your grave.

You were all there.

© Erica Mann Jong

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