Born in 1915, my aunt stands
by her husband’s grave,
we pull some errant dandelions
working in a stoic silence.
Each of us immersed in reveries,
I watch her hands once square and strong
remembering her garden
where petunias bloomed in rows
like nineteenth century soldiers.
lost to the screams of war… and then
of bombed out cities
and refugee camps for an alien land.
She sighs, to turns to me
to speak with brittle eyes,
“there is space here for me but
I don’t want to share with him,
he betrayed me when I young,
I was so stupid,
the gossips said he had son, not mine
while I was pregnant… it was true…
I found out later…
How do I tell my son,
I do not want
to be buried here…
to rot forever by his side…
On the other hand,
with my bones on top of his,
laid on his mouldy heap
I can make him uncomfortable
in his eternal rest,
haunting him beyond this grave.
The priest tells me to pray for peace
but I would be a wonderful ghost”
She looks at me and grins.