Last Gift
Ann Keniston
April 1, 1999
The grief slipped so gradually away I scarcely noticed the missing heaviness in me. Maybe this was her last gift— my sense that she never existed, much less entered my room, bodiless, perfect, to shield me in turn from each danger of mortal love. Before death seized her maybe she stood before the closet each of whose dresses, coats, and filmy scarves we removed and laid into boxes till the hangers clattered, and hoped that one day I'd begin unmaking, first tentatively, then from habit, my need always to be the most faithful mourner. My occasional feeling that I'm completely without footing might be the natural unfolding of her wish, in which she's present, the way the deep blue, utterly silent sky above her grave is made possible by particles of water and dust scattering the light.
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