GRIEF Poem: Polka Records, by Claire Wittlieff

I wonder if he heard his mother calling
The same way he heard her voice
The moment her skull hit the car roof
Veronica saying goodbye as he watered his flowers

He used to walk me by his garden
Plucking tomatoes off the vine with my tiny hands
Asking me to test the taste of garlic in his pickle buckets
Painting both a statue of Mary and a U.S.S. Enterprise model at his workbench

He never pictured me pushing him in his chair
Taking him to the bathroom
Fixing him dinner and watching Westerns on TV
Should I feel guilty that I didn’t give him the opportunity to walk me down the aisle?

I hope he knows I loved him
I hope he felt it every time I squeezed his hand
Every time he kissed my cheek
Every time we saw a bird

And I hope Clarice came for him
Extended her reach as he asked the nurse to open the window
That the last though in his brain was love