I leave those three words

to stare at the ceiling while I go outside,

stumbling over my disproportionate feet,

thoughtless as I amble through our shared childhood.

A neighborhood she long vacated, that I never could,

not without leaving my poor mother,

sick and alone with no one to look after her.

Now, my mother is gone, but

I still remain with the company of her ghost.

 

The cold bites my face,

stings my eyes as I stare

at what was once her home.

Three stories, covered in

grey planks and rough brick.

The old inhabitants long gone,

she away to college, and her parents

downgrading after a harsh fall down the stairs

that kept her father’s hip from ever rolling properly in the joint again.

I can still see the illusion of two children

dashing across manicured lawn as a

goofy garden gnome scrutinizes from the flowerbed.

 

I never took time to meet the new neighbors.

 

Nor the ones that moved in after Miss Janie passed,

the little old lady next door,

who never got upset, no matter

how many stray objects—

baseballs, frisbees, soccer balls—

wound up in her backyard. Instead,

she brought us freshly baked goods

in a sickeningly sweet, stereotypical

grandmotherly way. These days,

the couple that now resides there

with their little boy,

who leaves his toys

scattered like old, discarded bones,

all around the yard,

wave as I get my mail.

I don’t wave back.

 

Veering off the sidewalk,

I walk onto the street,

a steep, rolling stretch of black

that we spent summers racing bicycles down.

I can still spot the exact stretch of pavement

where her wheels wobbled and

her body skidded, mingling

with that purple bike she loved so much.

I remember she stood with

rubies on her knees but nothing in her eyes,

picked up the bike and

started the climb back up the hill,

intent on getting it right.

 

Then, a memory of a long limo

slinking like an eel down that hill,

already packed full of friends.

Dressed and waiting.

Our mothers had insisted on one last picture

of their grown-up babies before we

drove out of the neighborhood for the night.

We smiled, arms

resting comfortingly around

one another like puzzle pieces.

Her dress the same purple as her old,

long forgotten bicycle.

 

She drove away indefinitely on an insignificant summer day.

 

Weighed down, I turn,

stumbling back inside.

Warmth blankets my shaking frame

though doesn’t serve to quell the chill

sulking underneath my skin.

My gaze falls to the card.

Save the Date.

I didn’t know “Richard” existed

until his name appeared next to hers

under those three words;

nothing more than a harsh reminder.

 

She moved on, and

I still remain with the company of her ghost