Widow (For Annie)

For twenty-five years you outlived him.
Every two years
you dragged your bags from one daughter's house
to the other's.
I hope our house was the one
you thought of as home.

You moved
for the last time at last
when my father arrived from Africa
with his toilet smells
and his sourness of breath
from coffee.
You kept your breath fresh
with parsley.

This last move prepared you for death.

We saw each other at church
where you always wore
on your coat
the pin I gave you
that once was caught
in a wonderful black and white photo.

And at Christmas, too, when Lydia roasted a goose
and would serve warm pie,
and, of course, Canadian rutabagas.
The blouses and sweaters you received
you stored unworn,
still wrapped in their original tissue.

Not that it was ever an issue.
You were vain, alright;
but it had nothing to do with clothing.
It was your posture.
Your pride stood you always upright.