He knit a family together, weathered by diabetes,
seeming to borrow time, never much discussing excellence, a strict
disciplinarian.
He was celebrated in slums, known as an undercurrent,
he looked hagridden, while walking slowly, holding his abdomen.
She was his wife. She would outlive him. In such, to deteriorate
rapidly, by spirits in smiles, by ghosts in laughter.
I wore some inadequate outfit. Her funeral was that
day. “Your mother didn’t take you shopping?” Of course, I nodded my head side
to side.
I would have loved her pond, waxed with eloquence, a
second in a teenage life.
Certain sky fog.
Gatherings came to a stopping. A quilt was unthreaded,
unknit, a slum of folks lost its lifeline, inevitable became ominous.
We might we thought, as to keep in touch, thirteen
years sacrificed. Never fathomed four chairs would have history, an old flask
would strike a memory, a dream makes an impression, then disappears.
