We sit ensconced in patterned chairs and
memories. My brother
decants port into the Waterford crystal
“Prost” he utters sadly, wearily, raising
the glass aloft, we drink
a silent toast to life, wordless the
others, wandering eyes too strained
for tears, each valiantly glances, turns
away
She must be here, somewhere among her
pretty things, the china cups
tipped just so, the books still scattered
here and there, she’ll walk again
in through the double doors, trailing
confidence and garden clippings
laughing with fearless smile under the
scant bandana
My sister replaces her glass on the tray,
dispassionately,
greedy eyes calculate its worth, manicured talons
poised
on what they would claim, no sentiment here,
just valuation
the hard-core worth of things, remind
myself again
let it rest unspoken, this is not our day
but hers, not
the time for fuss and recrimination
Hours enough for the sorting out, the
packing and sharing
division of her life into string bags and
plastic boxes
What to take away, what to leave behind, symbols
evaluation, compromise
Her spirit could never be contained, her
love
unconquered, undivided, all she really
leaves
and what we carry forth
The glass is cold in my palm, wine rolls
like a last kiss
on my tongue, my mind, my body, body of her
body, blood of her blood
a bittersweet swallowing, a sacrament, a
final gesture.
I drain the wine.
Sunlight, captured in crystal, dances in
raindrops
across the carpet, sparkling like mercury
scattered
free and unfettered, tiny colours moving
and I see her again in memory through the
open window
Among the flowers, breathing the scented
air
Barefoot, dancing, her long hair flowing
free.
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