I’m sitting at the marina drinking a coffee
thinking about when I used
to sit at the marina drinking a coffee.
That was many years
and many coffees ago
when flowers were blooming
in late spring,
newly planted in their temporal beds.
We put them there:
snapdragons, cosmos, impatiens
dusty millers, and alyssums.
Before them came the
potentillas and roses
arranged and rearranged
by Doug, the landscape architect.
We dug and raked
dug and raked
and spread mulch
and more mulch.
For two years I planted new flowers
each spring; watered, weeded,
fluffed both soil and mulch,
picked up litter and watched
visitors admire the colourful beds
on blue sky days.
On rainy days, we wouldn’t have to
water, so we’d sit and drink coffee
by the marina.
But like the river that flows past
the park, times change
and priorities shift.
Now there are no flowers.

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I hug my wife
I’m on the couch
She bends over me
Her brother died Thursday
Carries on automatically now
Makes dinners and cleans
Between rounds of tears
Worried about the children
That live far away
She sees the report
From the police department
And the coroner’s office
In between service planning
And correct obituary words
Struggles with appearing strong
For her aging parents
Grieving is a process
That doesn’t end graveside
When we bury family
We brush the dirt
From our winter boots
Entering the old church
Coffee and little sandwiches
Await our numb souls