Her passing is mentioned. We murmur and whisper—
but who here among us remembers her face?
Scarcely we knew her, but somehow we miss her.
Someone says: Tuesday, I’m certain I saw her—
one of the elders, the first at this place.
A brief intermission, and everyone whispers
and searches his memory, dimmed by a mist or
the gauzing of time that fogs all the traces
of recognition. And yet, we must miss her.
Wasn’t she widowed and lived with her sister?
There passes a breeze and our memory’s erased.
(I just can’t believe that she’s gone, someone whispers.)
Petite, I believe she was, merely a wisp, or
else recently ill—could that be the case?
How little we knew her. But someone must miss her.
For someone, she’s more than a name on a list, or
a featureless face. And now, by God’s graces
she’s gone, and just breezes and murmurs and whispers
remain, to remind us that somehow, we missed her.
