MYRA AND DAVE

They would have been in her late forties
then or early fifties the summers
I worked on their farm.
It wasn't my idea;
Dad made the arrangements.
You start on Monday
he said and that was that.
Then he said:
they had a son who fell
off the tractor his dad was driving.
Killed. I think
you ought to know that.

They were sitting on the porch
when I got there.
He rose and shook my hand.
Good morning he said
this is my wife.
Her smile was warm.
We're glad you're here
she said. I believed her.

Once when he and I were hoeing corn
he said: my wife
can outwork any man I've ever
known. I saw that he was
proud of her for that.
The two of us worked side by side,
fixing fence, topping tobacco stalks.
We talked some, mostly sports.
He followed the Phillies.

Sometimes I worked just with her,
in her garden mostly --
beans, sweet corn, strawberries.
She told me about their daughters
and the grandchildren.
A time or two she said the name
of their boy . . . Let's see, yes,
we bought the car
two years before Sammy died . . .
I wanted to ask how it happened,
what field, and where in the field,
if he died right away or lingered,
where his grave was,
how old he was,
if he was fun-loving or serious,
if he liked baseball,
what kind of books he read.
She would have told me, gladly,
if I had asked,
all that and more, I'm sure.

I did not ask.
I did not know enough about grief
and therefore feared it.
But I knew she carried their loss
more easily than he did,
that she never blamed him,
and he loved her for that.
I knew it was what saved him.