On Laying a Wreath

Yesterday is always calling, "that you, dear?" Light and laughter under the door — (as I stand outside laying this wreath on the mound memory marks with a monument) —

windows lit with lamps — an intimate clatter of cups, hassle of silver, wine jeweling a glass, a bubble of suds, a scurry upstairs and a banter! Pink spread. Slippers smothered in carpet. A celluloid rattle. The music stand in the bay window. Sunlight mottling the battered bookcase by the stairs where the dog is napping . . .

I lay my wreath who know late alarms, swift dressing, a dark house and the fire out . . . when I hear her, "that you, dear?" And the light is under the door again. She needs no answer who knows I never go!