A Conversation with a Stranger

I saw her come out of the
Ilex with her dog.
‘She’s very sweet,’ I said.
‘Oh, I couldn’t be without her,’
she said.
‘She keeps me company.’

‘Are you alone?’ I said,
not realising that was a strange question.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘my
husband died fourteen years ago.’

‘It’s hard, isn’t it? I bet
it doesn’t get any easier.
My auntie was listening
to an America song
the other day:
‘Ventura Highway’.
She started to tear up.
I held her hand.
Her husband died in 2009.’

And I said,
‘I think that when someone you love dies
a piece of them breaks off
and it pierces your heart,
and it burns, and it aches.
But, after a while, the
pain goes, and I imagine
you’re at peace with the piece
of them
that’s in there.’

‘I suppose so,’ she said.
‘I imagine it like he’s on a boat,
slipping farther and farther
into the horizon.’

‘I wonder what he’s doing
on the top deck,’
I said.
‘I bet he would love you
to join him there.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I bet.’

‘But not yet,’ I said.

‘Have a good day,’ she said,
smiling widely
as she walked away,
past the gardens
full of bright and beautiful flowers.

‘Enjoy your life,’ I said,
as I pushed my lady
in her wheelchair
up the path
and into the trees.