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Isoindoline Oct 2012
I look into the box
Her fabric folds of flowers are blue,
mine are pink and periwinkle, I’m wearing lace socks.
Mother stands behind me.
She is the only person-shape I understand

I stand in the doorway
A hand on my shoulder
Lying in bed, she beckons me
She’s not wearing her wig today.
Gently pushes a teddy bear into my hands.
From the Queen Elizabeth II.
Later, person-shapes
I don’t understand yet
but I see her sift out the chimney

Scattering her to the sea lapping my feet
My mother, her sisters watch the sun sink
drink caipirinhas

My first glass of champagne

A neighbor finds her at the bottom of the stairs
They do an autopsy
—painkillers—
Gracie’s eyes are dead too.
We bring flowers, despite allergies
because it’s convention.
First time I am also a person-shape.

A repeat.
She lies there, no wig.
A few hairs on the plush pillow.
Another box.
More flowers.
This time I lose shape altogether.

This one’s farther away
more peaceful
I don’t know him very well
I hover outside their grief this time.

A teacher.  My teacher.
Healthy.
Sometimes it surprises you:
he doesn’t look real—
only person-shaped.

But then, they never do.
Pretty much what the title says.  My life in terms of deaths.  Context is everything.  Everyone you meet leaves some kind of mark.  Some are more pronounced than others.

— The End —