Revising a poem - "Dear Aunt Margarita"

To My Dear Friend, After Her Passing 11-17-10

You passed on a Tuesday in the fall.
It was the first day I noticed that the leaves
on the trees were changing to a fiery orange.
I remember because, that day,
they were blowing sideways as a storm came in.

Wednesday, I baked everything in the house –
cookies, brownies, cupcakes, pies and breads –
to distract myself, to keep my mind occupied.
I brought some to your sisters with my condolences.

Thursday I cried for hours,
unable to accept that you wouldn’t be at your house
if I were to walk over to visit you, to talk,
while the dogs would wait for me on your porch,
like always.

Friday, I tore up the flower garden
that we had often admired,
because the blooms that once cheered me
now only reminded me of your absence.

Saturday, I attended your funeral
with hundreds of others
whose lives you touched,
whose hearts you warmed,
to say goodbye.

Everyone tells me that death
is just a part of life.
But I disagree.
Death is the end of life.


The Day You Died 3-9-11

It was a weekday in the fall.
The first day I really noticed the leaves
on the trees were changing to a fiery orange,
blowing sideways in the wind
as a storm came in.

Cookies, brownies, cupcakes and pies
filled my counter space.
I brought some to your sisters,
with my condolences.

I cried for hours.
You wouldn’t be at your house
if I were to walk over to visit you, to talk,
while the dogs would wait for me on your porch,
like always.

I tore up the flower garden.
Tulips and daisies had died on their stalks
and like you, they now reminded me
too much of your absence.

The last time I saw you,
cancer pained you so, but you smiled.
It was my birthday.
We discussed the regular topics, hugged,
and I said goodbye.
Not knowing it was the last.

Everyone tells me that death
is just a part of life.
But I disagree.
Death is the end of life.


Marguerite, Since You’ve Passed… 3-10-11

I’ve almost had another birthday,
just a few months more.
I haven’t been able to make my special cupcakes –
the margarita ones you liked so much –
since I gave you that last one.
“A margarita cupcake for my Aunt Margarita”

White, soft snow has fallen twice,
and stuck around for a few days.
I let the dogs run down the street –
their normal route to your house –
before I called them back to me.

I saw your sister Donna two months ago
in the BiLo down the way.
I heard her laugh – your laugh –
from aisle four and froze.
Then I ran. Looking, searching,
for the source, for you.
A hug from her is like a hug from you.

The small table and chairs you left me
look great with the burgundy curtains
I bought for the dining room.
We haven’t used the china yet.
The pattern of white Hawaiian flowers
trimmed in gold, is nothing but beautiful.

I planted tulips last month.
Must’ve been sixty bulbs placed into the earth.
They’re sprouting now and I wonder
what colors they’ll be…


Dear Marguerite 3-12-11

I didn’t get to say goodbye to you…
The last time I saw you was on my birthday
when I walked down to your house
to bring you a cupcake I’d made.
I saw that you were tired from a round of chemo,
so I didn’t stay long…I wish I had.

Two days later, when I got the call that you died,
for the first time in a long time, I couldn’t talk.
Instead, I remained in the kitchen for hours.
I baked everything in the house –
cookies, brownies, cupcakes, and pies.
I brought some to your sisters
with my condolences the next day.

I still can’t accept that you won’t be at your house
if I were to walk over to visit you, to talk,
while the dogs would wait for me on your porch,
like always.

I’m sorry I tore up the flower garden.
It only reminded me of your absence,
not the conversations we’d had about them.
I planted tulips instead of daisies this year.
They’re beginning to sprout now.

The shelf life of tulips is very short,
only a few weeks, but they’re such beautiful flowers
I appreciate them even for that small period.
And since they grow out of bulbs,
I know they’ll come back next year.


Dear Aunt Margarita 3-13-11

The last time I saw you,
cancer pained you so, but you smiled.
“A margarita cupcake for my Aunt Margarita…”
It was my birthday.

Cooper and Hunter still know the way to your house,
but we haven’t walked that path in a while.
They lay on my porch now,
and watch me garden alone.

The daisies died when winter came
because it snowed twice last year,
so I planted tulip bulbs instead.
They are sprouting now.

A hug from Donna is a hug from you
and she has your laugh, straight match.
I could tell it was her from aisle four –
baking supplies.

The china sits, untouched, tucked
carefully away in an upstairs closet
next to my wedding dress
and photos you admired.


Dear Aunt Margarita 3-15-11

The last time I saw you,
cancer pained you so, but you smiled.
“A margarita cupcake for my Aunt Margarita…”
It was my birthday then.
Cooper and Hunter still know the way to your house,
but we haven’t walked that path in a while.
They lay on my porch now,
watching me garden alone.
A bowl of peaches rests on the round table
decorated with stone flowers
on top of the Carpathian rug.
The daisies died when winter came
because it snowed twice last year,
so I planted tulip bulbs instead.
I still detest the pruning shears
that callous my palms so.
A hug from Donna is a hug from you
and she has your laugh, straight match.
I could tell it was her from aisle four –
baking supplies.
She is a resurrection of you,
your sister, your twin.
The china sits, untouched, tucked
carefully away in an upstairs closet
next to my wedding dress
and photos you admired
of my life in May and June.

The Christening

A hazy early morning, the sky in oranges
and yellows, all blurred together. Flat like a
mirror, crystalized and clear, the water stays. Rows
of boats stacked, in two separate worlds, sit
waiting for their captains to leave the docks.

It could be Italy, Argentina, or France, possibly.
Don’t you see the masts? There are none.
Slim, long gray lines, barely on the page, position
ships against black, no purple, mountains, along the
lakesides shore. Do you know this place well?

Time is frozen here. A yellow light glows
dimly from within a nearby yacht, but no
face peers from the window. Lined up as
schoolchildren, each in their place, bobbing with the
tide as it flows in, then later, out.

Take the virgin to sea! A bottle of
champagne upon the bow, red vests hanging in
the galley. The grasses dotting the sand hills
sway with the breeze and a gull calls
out before snatching the fish from the wire.