Afterlife
Aug 6 2009


She had worked hard
to believe in an afterlife.
Not judgement, so much,
and she hardly had need of forgiveness;
but perhaps reuniting with loved ones,
a gauzy tableau of childhood,
the density of life
when you’re young.

The house seems almost impatient
with the kids gone;
a hollow dry-walled box
waiting
for a new family to fill it up.
She keeps the doors shut,
3 museums to adolescence
— old posters, an empty desk, closets still messy.
So she can’t understand
how so much dust
accumulates.

She has gotten used
to marriage;
even better, since the separate beds.
The rituals of daily life
are comforting.
Sometimes, they go out.
But he looks his age, and then some,
and in a certain light
unrecognizable.
She sees how many minutes
he sits in the driveway
with the engine off,
before hauling himself out
abruptly,
as if mustering-up the will.
She imagines him, one day
turning the key
zigzagging back down the lane
driving out of her life
and into his next one.
But of course, he never does.

She doesn’t mind
cooking for two.
They eat
to a game show, the news.

He goes to his workshop
watches golf
takes the trash out.

She grows plants
— sprouting seeds from scratch,
watering, re-potting
pollinating by hand.
And keeps track
of birthdays, and anniversaries.

The house fills up
Thanksgiving, Christmas.
He has plans
to down-size to a condo —
time to move on, he says.
But she’d rather go back;
working just as hard on the past.