We took one final
walk under the terrible
moonlight.
The smell of my
heliotrope
was thick in
the air.

You looked at me
(with those eyes
I grew to love)
and you told me
that you were
going to stay.

I didn’t argue.

A cold wind blew in
from the North.
I coughed and
you asked if I was feeling
all right.

I lied.

I visited our daughter
and you stayed behind
and kept house.

I succumbed to
pneumonia and
our daughter had
to take care of me.
In the haze of
my fever,
I thought of you.
I thought of how I
married a
total stranger,
and how I must have
been the luckiest girl
in New Hampshire
because you loved me and
I loved you.

When I died,
I chose an
unimportant day to
relive,
but the sharp pains
of our lost love
destroyed me.

Now you must be
alone, keeping
house and tending
to my heliotrope.
I wish I could have
said goodbye.

Sometimes you bring
flowers to my grave.
I reach, wanting to
touch
you, only to
realize I won’t
ever see you again.

I never did see Paris,
and you
never got a real rest.