Submitted by Brian Geiger
Sometimes, Mrs. Aubrey drops her glass.
She doesn’t hear it break. And she doesn’t see it fall.
It just folds up. Scatters through the planks.
And burrows in the earth.
I often see it on the porch. Dripping and moist in the sun.
It holds the weight of ancient ruins. Unremarkable now
But indicative of something vibrant long since passed.
She knows that Henry is gone,
But some mornings she forgets and brews two cups.
That’s when she turns her porch into the Acropolis,
The proudest jewel the earth has worn. A relic of life.
Or a testament to love. Ruins and all.
I remember when they took Henry to the car.
Cradled and safe like when he came into this world.
Mrs. Aubrey didn’t cry. She just drew a bath and got in bed
Because it didn’t matter that the sun had just risen. She lost sense.
Because that’s how you keep it. Because that’s how you cope.
And that’s ok.
And when she’s ready, she’ll clear away her porch.
And sweep up the ruins. And see that it’s all still there.
Because even if the Acropolis levels out.
It doesn’t really.
Because when people go, they don’t.
Photo Credit: Rene Magritte – Faraway Looks