She was my grandfather's second wife. Coming late

to him, she was the same age his first wife

had been when he married her. He made

my grandmother a young widow to no one's surprise,

and she buried him close beside the one whose sons

clung to her at the funeral tighter than her own

children. But little of that story is told

by this place. The two of them lie beneath one stone,

Mother and Father in cursive carved at the foot

of the grave. My grandmother, as though by her own design

removed, is buried in the corner, outermost plot,

with no one near, her married name the only sign

she belongs. And at that, she could be Daughter or pitied

Sister, one of those who never married.

Published in Late Wife (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 2005).

Published: 26 October 2009

© 2009 Claudia Emerson and Southern Spaces