When we moved to the new neighborhood,
Mrs. Paige told my mother about them,
how every Saturday at four, they'd walk
to the edge of the woods where
their son was buried. He'd been killed,
she said, when his motorcycle ran off
the road. Their farm lay just behind
our house and we could see them climb
the little hill across the meadow,
hand in hand. As far was we could tell,
they never said a word, just walked,
and when they got there, bowed their heads.
I imagined that they prayed and cried,
but I was young and did not know
what grief was or what it does.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment