Behind our house,
she walks to the beach.
“The sand is not what it used to be,
but the water sounds the same
as that day when I saw the
Grey Heron with a
broken wing,” she says.
She holds my hand and tells me
she gambled her time.
With a quiet grin, she stares into waves.
She counts the petals plucked
from the bouquet.
Her wish is sincere.
She’ll wait, at least until Sunday.
Outside the church, her grave will be
filled. I feel like I can smile.
Our family stands at the edge of sand
and watches her step into water. She
says grey days are her favorite
at the lake.
I give her a bouquet of Queen Anne’s Lace and Black Eyed Susans.
Her hands are cold.
She looks back at all her loves and smiles,
walking further into the water.
Glistering like lacquer.
From the dock, I watch her swim.
She stops and tells me the dried flowers
in the windowsill look pretty.
I turn to face the house.
There is a bouquet, glowing. I tell her we
picked the flowers together last fall.