She is closed up in that house,
alone every day.
The sons long since moved
away, out of home, out of state-
there are seldom visitors.
She goes to church on Sunday mornings
and sits alone in the back pew,
stiff body against rigid wood:
No one joins her there.
The years have beat upon her
like rain on a grave stone
and her disposition has gnarled-
a thorny, overgrown weed
beside it.
Cloistered like a nun in there
every day
with dusty trophies and awards,
brittle scrap books
overflowing with yellowing photos.
Sometimes she goes to his closet,
opens the door of that shrine,
and holds a sport coat or cardigan
against her face,
rubbing the material on her cheeks;
inhaling, desperately trying
to remember how he smelled-
not the hospital, disinfectant,
rotting slowly from the inside smell,
but the natural scent of his clean skin.
She sleeps with the lights on,
I�ve noticed; the television flaring
blue light behind the shades.
Perhaps she is falling back
into childhood as so many do-
once again afraid to be alone
in the dark.
She is locked behind that door,
alone every day and night with her
holy cards and rosary,
wondering if this is was the goal,
and how long yet?