Rosaria
Every time I pass her doorway
I can feel the sidewalk chalk in my hands.
I am six years old again;
She is sitting next to me in the lawn chair
During a cool, city morning in the summer.
It will always be her doorway.
It does not belong to the people who reside there now.
It never will.
They will never know the way she moved
In the kitchen
Pacing back and forth
And sitting back down again.
I think to myself
That if I were to go inside,
Just one last time,
I would see her sitting upright on the couch
Telling me that she was not asleep
Even though I know she was.
I know.
And on the worst day,
The one in February,
I watched from the car
As Carol King sang "It's Too Late".
They took her to the church
And I followed obediently
Not wishing to say goodbye.
But I try not to think of this,
Because we never truly parted ways.
