Annie

Annie


Annie lies buried
in North Adams, Massachusetts.
A comfortable sort of place,
at least Annie would think so.
The graves don't stand sentry in straight, even lines
and little pots of flowers don't wither in the sun.
The gravestones are crooked, hunched-over little men
scattered about the hillocks and valleys.
Here and there are lilacs, violets, weeping
willows and even some raspberry bushes.
Children sneak over the fence to pick berries in season,
playing hide and seek among the tombs:
their laughter, happy counterpoint
to this grave place.
Annie would like that.

Annie is there, somewhere.
The last time I tried, I couldn't find her grave.
I left my armful of lilacs
by another Annie's stone.
An Annie with the same name,
but she lived and died some hundred
years earlier than my Annie.
She, too, was probably a grandmother
having survived to the age of seventy-three.
And, grandmothers being grandmothers,
I think Annie would have liked that idea. . .
both of them.