by Nolo Segundo
My wife and I
went to say hello
to her mother and
put flowers on her
grave
and as it was such
a vivid day shining
like life’s most
poignant dream (you
know, that feeling
you only get in late
autumn as the last
reluctant leaves
finally fall and old
man winter sends
hints of his coming
harsh arrival),
I suggested we go
for a quiet walk
through the large
silent park where
the dead reside in
undemanding patience.
We walked the long paths
of this community of souls,
stopping here and there
to read the grave markers
(and without telling my wife,
I would compare their years
against my own, so often
amazed I had more, and,
knowing my own youth of
unsweet carelessness, had to
wonder why).
Then we came upon a small
stonewall enclosure, with
a sign at its entrance:
Within low walls of dead-cold
stone we saw the tiny grave
markers, most with but one
date beneath a name and often
an appellation (“Little Bo,” “Our
Angel,” “My Lost Dream”)
though some had two dates,
usually only a few days apart,
sometimes a few months of life
were testified to.
As we left that saddest part of a
very sad place, I said to my wife,
“It’s good they’re all together,
isn’t it?”
She nodded her head but turned
away so I could not see her eyes . . .