I’m pretty sure I’m the only one
in the world right now thinking
of you, bringing us a plate of
home-made biscuits and Virginia
ham with a pot of mustard, all
trimmed in red and white gingham.
It was your Christmas gift and you’d
made one up for each of your neighbors ―
a holiday grace, I have to tell you, that’s
been out of style for 30 years or so.
Next to my own mother
you were the most giving and
energetic woman I knew.
But one day you said
you didn’t feel well and
lay on your bed for a short rest.
You died in less than a minute, they said.
I still remember my shock
at that news. So young I was not
much acquainted with death.
There was Grandma Pym who gave
me her wedding ring to keep.
And Susie, oh grievous loss,
who died in a car crash
after the spring dance.
But I never thought that death
could touch a young woman
just resting, taking a breather.
I guess today I’m the only one
who remembers your simple present
of biscuits and ham, but tomorrow
Stefania or Ginny or Morgan or Liz
may think the same thing:
your gift was good. Thank you.