With her arm locked in mine,
she dodders toward the plot
where a week ago he was buried.
The ground is painted
with pale carnations, marbled-blue mums,
gossamer of baby’s breath,
white and red roses.
On the placeholder
staked into newly sprouted grass:
his name and photo,
the years in which he lived.
It’s the date of departure
that holds my attention,
the year reading 2065.
We joke that he is out there, somewhere,
wandering, bound to outlive us both.
I almost believe this to be true,
that the pine box we buried
is empty, the inner, white silk
unpressed and gleaming.
Her laughter sputters to an idle sigh
and I watch a silver strand of hair
coast on air only to rest
within the cupped petals of roses.
I am bound to outlive her.
With sun’s luster scattered to twilight,
her arm locked with mine,
there wouldn’t be a more beautiful moment,
if I were to believe we would soon
separate, when she says, at last:
I’m ready to go.
Kyle Vandeventer resides in Grand Rapids, Michigan and has been published in 3288 Review.