my husband says on our way back from Home Depot and for a minute<\/p>\n
I picture us pulling up beside his mother\u2019s home on Front Street<\/p>\n
in the shadow of luxury yachts. Then I remember he means<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
her grave and the oddness of it settles into me. I never<\/p>\n
went to the funeral, having ministered to her in those last<\/p>\n
days before she slipped away, her blood refusing to move.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I said what I said. Too late for her to hear anything now,<\/p>\n
but my husband went with a small group of her last friends,<\/p>\n
laughing at her oddly splattered reputation. No service.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
No solemn rituals. Funny how he went fifteen months<\/p>\n
without speaking to her, yet he wants to see if the rosebush<\/p>\n
your ex-wife planted still grows above her head.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
You\u2019re fat. Lose some weight, <\/i>she scolded.<\/p>\n
Paint your house. It\u2019s an eyesore. <\/i><\/p>\n
You should get a job. <\/i><\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
A haiku of accusations, insinuations, betrayals.<\/p>\n
I listen to the impartial grumble of the truck, one brake<\/p>\n
catching slightly, groaning. We turn right beyond<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
the Youngstown Inn into the cemetery, drive<\/p>\n
to the end, near the last headstone, and park.<\/p>\n
His footsteps bend the August blades<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
and I follow, not knowing exactly where we are going.<\/p>\n
He kneels down, fingers the cut stem, the remains<\/p>\n
of the plant. They\u2019ve been mowing over it,<\/i><\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
he says and wonders why. There\u2019s no marker<\/i><\/p>\n
I answer. \u00a0Only a vague rectangle still exists<\/p>\n
in the grass. I point out other graves<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
without stones, with wooden crosses,<\/p>\n
with whirligigs of ducks, endless American flags.<\/p>\n
Next time he comes, he says he will bring<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
a large rock, a stone, dark and heavy,<\/p>\n
something he has lying around, something<\/p>\n
easy to throw in the bed of the dying truck.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Published in:<\/p>\n
Eclectica\u00a0<\/em>(Oct.\/Nov. 2014)<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" my husband says on our way back from Home Depot and for a minute I picture us pulling up beside his mother\u2019s home on Front Street in the shadow of luxury yachts. Then I remember he means her grave and the oddness of it settles into me. I never went to the funeral, having … <\/p>\n