The Way She Set the Table

That photo, tucked behind the smiling faces

of cousins long forgotten, a blurred edge.

Dad's arm, around her, in those awkward places

where new lives meet, balanced on a ledge.

Her hand, a light, almost possessive hold,

a quiet claim. And the way she folded napkins,

a perfect square, neat as stories told

in careful measures, never quite mishaps.

The perfume, something heavy, lily-like,

that lingered in the hall, after she'd gone.

A stranger's scent, a subtle, sudden strike,

marking territory, from dusk till dawn.

She learned my habits, asked about my day,

her smile a little too precise, too bright.

A presence that would never fade away,

a quiet weight, in the fading light.