by Heather Allen
She dusts the china and looks through the window of
her beautiful glass house, bathed in morning sunlight
Her mind is misted but her eyes are dancing
as she stands tall and upright, white-haired and limber,
feet firmly planted on the scrubbed stone floor
where the sunshine sparkles through the polished panes
She strokes the leaves and smiles as bees
awakened, seek the precious nectar
These scented blooms help her remember
the hands that held the spade that dug the earth
She stares through the glass and the glass mists,
so she pulls out her old lace handkerchief,
absently wipes the pane, and once again
she thinks of his strong brown arms about her
She closes her eyes and breathes in, smiling,
feels the spring sun warming her cool pale face
Now her heart quickens, she knows he’s behind her,
his big body solid, still present, still breathing!
She’s sure he’s there, she feels him for certain,
so she turns with arms wide and opens her eyes:
but there’s nothing but empty air to greet her.
Yet as she sees it, he’s always with her;
among the pelargoniums and the china dolls,
surveying the garden from their beautiful glass house:
they’re together at breakfast, the sun streaming in,
at ease in the wicker chairs, toast and hot coffee,
and The Times left open on the letters page
Talking of everything, talking of nothing,
while their time ticks on, and on, and on…
Now she is one; drinking coffee alone.
His chair, untouched and undisturbed
still angled to the sun. He’s waiting there,
while she sniffs the blooms and plucks dead leaves,
then wipes the table that’s already clean
and asks him: “What shall we do today?”
The dust in the air shifts ever so slightly:
she smiles, content, and turns to face the glass.