it's still her house

a past love of mine,

aren't they all past

at this point,

died in the house
I live in,

fifteen years ago, almost to the day.

they took her body
to Manchester, but the ground
was too cold
to dig.

the burial would wait until spring.

we listened to the words said
at the memorial
for her short life.

just forty three years.
she was told as a child that she'd
never become an old
woman.

a doctor's prophecy fulfilled.

in a way it's still her house, 

she's here.
despite the changes made.

the different paint.
all of what she owned is gone.
her garden,
her wreathe upon the door.

but
I see her at times
in the shadows,

coming up the stairs.
I hear her voice, her laughter,
her honesty.

I feel her tears.
I see her standing beside
me
looking at the snow laced
woods

beyond the gate,

her wondering if this would
be her year.