“This’ll be her last winter”
My father says in a
Soft sort of way
The same words I’ve heard him say
Countless times before
He always had an understanding
Of life and death
and A quiet acceptance of both

As we drove the road sides
Were littered with bodies and snow
Corpses waiting until spring
To decompose

He’ll never worry again
About being the last one left
The people mill about as if
Nothing’s changed at all
but He can’t stop looking at
The place where she used to sit
and It hasn’t quite sunk in yet
That she’s gone, forever
He’ll never see her again
She’s never coming back
and He can’t shake the feeling that
He no longer belongs in this place
He can’t move on and he
Can’t go home
Because she is dead
She is dead and he’s
He is the one that remains

This was her last winter and she
Nearly made it through
He holds his tea between his fingers
and Looks at me as he whispers,
“This’ll be my last, too.”