I did not know her, here laid out, a careful combing of the hair not as I’d known it set before - forehead laid bare, cleared silver strands; not of my choosing, frame beside.
But father told he wanted this, a final farewell to his wife, though he knew, as did I, full-well, she long had left; this trolley bare, enforced that spirit flown the room.
By absence seeping beads drawn down - the knowledge that we paused alone skeletal cage deserted now. And since, the question posed myself - should I dissuade through queries raised?
Poor memory’s now fixed in place - this mask should not replace her face; some say dread visit reinforced, that shock fires mould of empty clay - unnecessary proof for me.
For him, for his, I dare not say; the sixty years entitle him to linger, lose, yet loose again the bond and knots that tied them close. And sons accompany past death
Previously published by Sparks of Calliope