REMEMBRANCE

I stand on the platform, watching you
step off the train. You’re different—
thinner, maybe, as though
the excess flesh has burned away. The years
pass through my fingers like the cold rain
falling on your coat, your hair,
your lips chewed raw.

Our train slides backwards, past
the darkened woods, the frozen
pond. The stars dull like heirlooms
in the morning sky. I recognize
the town, our little street. I hear the clink
of china; it’s Grete in the kitchen,
making breakfast. The lilac blooms
in the window, filling the whole house
with its scent….And the delicate tension
returns to your shoulders. You sit at your desk,
back straight, composing a letter
to your Brüderlein in England. Quietly,
I enter the study. You turn.