Posted by: carolyn / through a widow's eyes | January 8, 2011


My grandmother's yellow breadbox
sits hearthside,

holding newspapers

to start the fire.

I no longer care

to read the paper,

so the supply dwindles

to the bottom of the box.

This morning, 

kneeling at the wood stove,

I looked down

at the crumpled paper in my hands

-- the Boston Globe sports section

February 22, 2009.

Which means  J. bought this paper.

 Which means he was alive,

well enough to read the newspaper,

well enough to care about the Celtics.

And I am broken, all over again,

at dawn on a winter morning.

While J. was sick, and always cold,

and craving warmth and comfort,

I could not light a fire

"to save my life".

As it were.

Paper and birchbark and kindling

a charred smoldering ruin

fussed with again and again

as the house grew colder.

Now that I am alone, 

and nobody needs the heat,

paper and birchbark and kindling

 catch every time

and are merrily ablaze in seconds.


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