You taught me to fear death
when you stopped grinding watch
crystals and engraving lovers' names
on golden bracelets and helping
couples pick out wedding bands,
when you foolishly shoveled winter
from your son's drive and went home to nap
but didn’t wake to the screaming
or sirens.
I had not seen that state of breathless sleep
until I saw you, passive, expressionless, "at peace."
I had not felt skin, more like orange peel
than the face I knew,
or understood how tightly the body
fits into a coffin, the coffin
into a vault, the vault
into the earth.
I did not know
how tightly they pack the dirt
over a new grave.
Now, sometimes I stand on frozen ground
watching the lights of a town
like your jewels in the distance,
waiting,
wondering if I
will make good use
of this gift of life.