22 July 2009
Her name on his lips brings a smile
and memories, laughter. She still lives
because he remembers her. I come to know
the woman she was through stories told
around the table and the view
through the window overlooking
a field where the milking barn used to be
before she died, before the farm was rented out,
before they sold the cows, and the silo for scrap,
when the boy who would grow to be my husband
called this place home, milked cows, played
and worked in the hay barn and caught fireflies
under her swath of New Jersey sky.
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