She kissed me first beside the river,
where the watter carried branches south.
I remember her hands were trembling.
She wore her mother’s little silver cross,
darkened near the chain.
When I touched it, she moved away.
She would not meet my eyes
during liturgy.
She stood stiff among the candles.
I watched the old women bow their heads.
I watched wax gather at the saints’ feet.
Outside, the bells went on ringing.
There were women outside
selling poppies wrapped in newspaper.
Their fingers red from the cold.
I bougth flowers for my grandmother
and carried them like an apology,
when I wanted to take her hand.
She began walking home
on the opposite side of the road.
So our shoulders would never touch.
I used to think,
if I loved her gently enough
it would stop frightening her.
But fear raised her.
It sat beside her at supper.
It slept beside her childhoud bed.
It followed us
through every narrow street
lit blue with evening.
Once, in winter, she pressed a parcel into my hands,
a little painted Mary.
I understood her then.
And I kept it hidden
Inside a schoolbook for years.
Last spring I saw her by accident
lighting a candle for the dead.
I looked at her.
Not with anger.
And for one foolish moment
I am fourteen again.
standing beside her in her gloves.
Watching snow gather in her dark hair
while neither of us says,
what we cannot survive saying aloud.
May 21
May 21, 2026 at 1:15 PM UTC
She kissed me first beside the river,
where the watter carried branches south.
I remember her hands were trembling.
She wore her mother’s little silver cross,
darkened near the chain.
When I touched it, she moved away.
She would not meet my eyes
during liturgy.
She stood stiff among the candles.
I watched the old women bow their heads.
I watched wax gather at the saints’ feet.
Outside, the bells went on ringing.
There were women outside
selling poppies wrapped in newspaper.
Their fingers red from the cold.
I bougth flowers for my grandmother
and carried them like an apology,
when I wanted to take her hand.
She began walking home
on the opposite side of the road.
So our shoulders would never touch.
I used to think,
if I loved her gently enough
it would stop frightening her.
But fear raised her.
It sat beside her at supper.
It slept beside her childhoud bed.
It followed us
through every narrow street
lit blue with evening.
Once, in winter, she pressed a parcel into my hands,
a little painted Mary.
I understood her then.
And I kept it hidden
Inside a schoolbook for years.
Last spring I saw her by accident
lighting a candle for the dead.
I looked at her.
Not with anger.
And for one foolish moment
I am fourteen again.
standing beside her in her gloves.
Watching snow gather in her dark hair
while neither of us says,
what we cannot survive saying aloud.
I wonder if you are happy as you are now.
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