And I thought to myself, “Where shall we bury her?”
Startled by the sheer absence of an idea, I winced.
Those who never come to see her haven’t a notion
or they would have asked at Thanksgiving dinner.
We buried her so long ago somehow yet there it is,
the question of her final resting place looming large.
A few weeks will bring another birthday celebration
that she passes unaware of her previous 77 years.
And she, stuffed in a back room while we all feasted,
the family she grew and fostered, living as if we know.
Did anyone see her in the shadows of her own wake?
Will anyone mourn the body’s cease post matris vitae?
In the gaze of the other 