that house
thirty five years ago.
a pale
pink on the siding
to her wishes.
the wallpaper
inside, to his.
we were young then.
death was
what happened to old
people,
grand parents.
we would never die.
we'd keep on like this
until the end of time.
on ladders,
with brushes in our hand,
side by side.
he's gone now,
but rarely a day goes by
when i don't talk
to him,
between the pear trees,
the wires,
the sun beating heat
upon the sunny side.
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