It’s my last day at the house.
My last time wandering the backyard.
I’m not aware I want to crush anything.
My boots crunch through the desiccated,
frosted grass, a sound like stubbing out
cigarette after cigarette.
I climb to the top of the hill
and unlatch the creaky gate in the fence
that frames the swimming pool.
I don’t see it, but there’s a crust
of ice beneath the canvas cover.
Plus algae, a few dead frogs and bugs,
however things stood last August.
Eons ago. Before I knew.
Another creaky door now, to the gazebo.
An icicle crashes from the roof
as I lower myself
into a plastic Adirondack chair.
Our view: three mountains, shy and local,
that spoke a little of yearning; of gratitude.
Mosquitoes got in through these screens.
And wasps would hover
near nests stuck to the beams and rafters
like harmless mischief; like wads of chewing gum.
There was laughter up here, iced tea, beer.
Paper-plate family meals, tête-à-têtes,
and silent reading alone, and sunsets
one shouldn’t see alone. And a husband
who’d walk up and knock, a little joke,
before he’d let himself in.
I see him smiling. He asks how I am.
He’s wrapped in a towel; he’s been in the pool,
he’s dripping on the floor, we chat,
we’re the luckiest couple you’ve ever met.
But it’s December. And the dripping now
is the sound of melting icicles
sharpening into knives.