Rosaria

Every time I pass her doorway

I can feel the sidewalk chalk in my hands.

I am six years old again;

She is sitting next to me in the lawn chair

During a cool, city morning in the summer.

It will always be her doorway.

It does not belong to the people who reside there now.

It never will.

They will never know the way she moved

In the kitchen

Pacing back and forth

And sitting back down again.

I think to myself

That if I were to go inside,

Just one last time,

I would see her sitting upright on the couch

Telling me that she was not asleep

Even though I know she was.

I know.

And on the worst day,

The one in February,

I watched from the car

As Carol King sang "It's Too Late".

They took her to the church

And I followed obediently

Not wishing to say goodbye.

But I try not to think of this,

Because we never truly parted ways.