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Christine McNeill

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The Way to Light

She appeared at the top of the stairs,
a doll in her arms, as if it were a bundle
of wood she'd brought in from the yard.
 
I made an effort to lighten my step,
my smile offered to appease her unconscious guilt.
She turned the doll's head to her covered breast.
 
The coming hour: she poured tea into best cups,
opened cupboards and drawers
to disclose her unused dowry: white linen, silver spoons –

no words accompanied the task of laying them
out on the mahogany table; her eyes
searched mine for recognition
 
that all this could have been her lived life.
I nodded in appreciation.
A tender emotion ran through her:
 
pulling up the lid of a box,
she scooped a handful
of her dead fiance's blond locks
 
cut by his mother when he'd been four years old,
and one by one, let them drop into
the golden rays of sun
 
that spread a circle of light.
She stood, like a child, in its blessing.
I slowly went back down the stairs.

Page(s) 28

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