Poem for Saturday, January 18, 2014 (2)

In Passing

When they buried her, they could not
understand it all: the aroma in that room
born from hot lead and lavender, the
shrill cries of the newborn rising from
the crib down the hall. Years afterward,
they maintained their habits: kissing her
framed photograph before leaving
the house, stacking the dishes after meals
in the same manner she had done.
When her birthdays came, they always
mentioned how beautiful she was,
how her hair was brighter than a
thousand suns.