Somewhere along the line,
I lose track of the divide
between the
living and the dead.
In a thrift store, for
almost a minute, I
can't remember
whether or not
my parents are alive.
Staring at a china tea set
with a pattern of brown plums
I swear used to sit
in my grandmother's cabinet,
I can't place which
inevitable tragedies
are in the past, and
which are still ahead of me.

Summer ended
in a screech of brakes
one July night, and
October transitioned
prematurely into winter
with a flare of golden sunlight
and an overdose of anaesthetic.
There have been others - a long
succession of fatalities the
whole year through, but
those two were
the deaths that really
unmade me.
Since then, I guess,
the shadow has always
sort of been there.
Maybe before.  Maybe
it started with that
first small, broken body.
Or else it's just getting older
and outliving friends  
that does it.
Bereavement as the new normal.

Which leaves me here,
staring at thrift store china,
trying to remember
if I'm an orphan.