Sunday Morning
Before we’d even started she’d begun
to clear, the whitefish salad bought special
for those among us still unschmeared.
So good to see you, and so good you’ll come again,
and so wonderful to think of you next year.
When will I see you? I’ll be there. I’ll be here.
Her holiday the selling season, the store she’d had long dead.
The stories anchored her and us to her.
October is Thanksgiving is the New Year.