It's a field of zinneas cascading into the hills from three years ago.
It's a porcelain music box singing Saint Lucia's song.
It's an orange Ford pickup with a carpeted fold-down backrest, Grandpa's ride, oil and mustiness.
I'm not alone in these memories.
I'm grappling with the remnants
Evil's insinuation "Are you just picking up those dead petals? Aren't you exhuming a body? Dragging along the old?"
The alluring wisp of forgetfulness, a social pressure to put it behind.
"Your grief should be done by now."
I am not alone in waiting.
All these crafted prayers, mistrust and the sheltering of wasps nests.
Here and now,
the bag is closed, the ante tipped over, and the power of my own words break up the crater of death.
All this treading of memories has exhausted me, a tired swimmer far from the shore.
I am not alone in the longing.
I bloom in December
Unbeckoned, my body remembers
My pain exhumed so I can see it in the light
And it's beautiful, this dying, this breaking of decades of acceptance without nuance.
Now adding the details, naming the affliction and the pain is glorious.
I am not alone in taking so long.
