for D.B.F.
The white and blue folds of her sweater.
The hand of her daughter on her shoulder.
The rain.
The cancer blossoming in her brain.
The story of when she did dishes for the dying woman.
This dying woman in the home she just built.
The glasses lifted high for a champagne toast.
The medicine waiting for tomorrow.
The snapdragons on the table not yet starting to droop.
The song we have sung with her for thirty years.
The tears.
The missing harmony where her voice would be.
The smile on her face as if nothing was missing.
As if nothing was lacking.
As if she was opening the gate
and showing us this, this is the way to walk through.