I Wandered Among the Gravestones on Memorial Day
I wandered among the gravestones on Memorial Day,
alone and pensive,
lost in a peaceful stone garden of names.
I watched footsteps,
saw the blooms and the banners.
I read the names of those who lied there.
“Delilah,
childhood sweetheart and beloved wife—
1909-1989.”
Beside her lay her husband, Frank.
1909-1999.
He survived ten years without her
after a lifetime of pure love,
of sharing the world
and every joy in it.
Could he even live one day
in those ten long years?
I had no reason to mourn.
No one had died.
I was a foreign spirit,
drifting, watching,
and imagining.
“Baby Thomas:
Until we meet again.
August 3-10, 1937.”
A girl clutched her dying newborn,
his fated face spotted with raindrops
and hers a tapestry of despair
as together they wailed.
The father stood apart,
slammed the wall,
and choked on his heart.
They buried their son
seven days after his birth,
but how long did they live?
I continued my wanderings
and stopped at
“Lily.”
“My perfect bride, I shall wait for you.”
The husband’s name was carved,
but his end was yet to come.
On her side,
the earth was just beginning to sprout again.
Somewhere, he lived.
Somewhere, he was crying yet.
Somewhere, he was learning to live without her,
after just loving to live with her.
Somewhere,
a man was already dead.
Suddenly I saw—
through the calm peace of May,
an autumn flash, the ivory eye
and her wretched tears pouring
on the shoulders of a lonely man,
crouched and trembling in the garden—
“Rachel.
My perfect bride, I shall wait for you.”
He lifted his weary head.
Though his face was blinded by water
and twisted with fire,
I knew him.
I turned from Lily’s grave,
choking as he had.
I walked,
afraid and unsure.
Was it prophecy?
Was it imagination?
I blinded myself to the image,
but branded words left their scar:
Someday,
I will lose her.
My wandering done, I passed from the stones,
yet what I learned would never leave:
Someday,
the flowers will bear my signature on Memorial Day.
Someday,
long before I join my cold bride in the enriched soil,
we will die together.
Blind
If there was a way
to reach back through the lens,
to reverse to that day
and return to those friends
with the things I know now
and converse with my past
and explain to him how
all he loves will not last,
he would not want to hear,
and he’d tell me I’m wrong.
He would chuckle and sneer,
and he’d tell me he’s strong,
that it’s not an affair,
and that he can’t mistake
the sweet smile that she wears
for a fabulous fake.
He’d not want to believe
what his future would find.
It’s my past that I see.
To his future he’s blind.
*
Now I look at my life
and at how it has changed,
and at once I realize:
it’s exactly the same.
I’ve a girl in my arms
who assures me she cares,
but our long-lasting bonds,
others say, are not there.
I still don’t want to hear,
and I think they are wrong.
I deny all my fear,
and I lie that I’m strong,
that it’s not an affair,
and that I can’t mistake
the sweet smile that she wears
for a fabulous fake.
I can’t tell what will come;
all I know is behind.
To my past I am dumb.
To my future I’m blind.
