The Green Pines

She was thirty-three when she died.
You suggest I take you where she was buried.
It’s been years since I drove there and I’m
anxious when I can’t locate it.
I find the pine tree first, though, much taller now,
of course, then the stone, and
under her name, mine, as a boy’s,
greened by it. I’m disoriented by the harsh stain
of light skimming over Lake Erie,
and there’s no use facing the
granite directly. The memories have been
removed here. Later that day, you confess
you don’t have the strength
to deal with my pain. I’m not sure
what you mean. I go out and I drive
beside the creek slowly moving under the pines
to see whether I’ll find anything.
My license says, I’m fifty.

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