I know you’ve been coming around a lot lately.
Must be so much to do. I’m sorry I didn’t say hi
when I passed you on Columbia Avenue last week.
I felt busy, too. Actually, when I saw you,
I crossed the street, afraid you’d want to talk—
I had so much to do that day—and I didn’t
want to be late to pick up the kids. You understand?
Nothing personal. Oh, yeah. I know I didn’t invite you
to the birthday party. Sorry. There were so many folks
coming already. Um, yeah, I saw you behind me
in the car today, so close on my bumper. What
was the deal? But it did make me realize,
looking out the windows at the willows beside the highway,
how very beautiful the frost—all glitter
and shine—and how seeing you there in the rearview
mirror my whole world seemed so very,
well, not mine.
I get such a visit, nearly every day. I’m not so cordial as ye, hafta push and shove a bit, to shake off an icy grip. If I’m receptive, I do fear we may walk off together.
The domesticity of this meditation on (with) Death — even the “Dear” of the title — does just a nice job of demystifying all that bones business. The details, “Columbia Avenue” and “the birthday party” and that great flourish with crossing the street to avoid the inevitable conversation, all touches that make me nod my head and smile, at Death, which is the point, no? And the ending sparkles, just enough threat to remind me to glance up.