Requiem

by Teresa Sutton

Ah, there you are - shoeless,

your back against a chestnut tree,

your shirt and pressed pants,

both white in the tall grass,

your chin on your chest,

your arms slack.

I walk towards you in blue

pedal pushers, but am surprised

to see a staircase outdoors

with lush, white carpet.

I untie my shoes, leave them

beside yours.

At the bottom is another staircase.

This one is wider, made

of rich mahogany.

At the bottom is another,

thin and rickety,

made of old unfinished lumber.

When I reach the last step,

I am at the edge of the deep water.

The water is refreshing.

I swim, stroke after stroke.

The river grows wider.

I am a strong swimmer,

but cannot reach the halfway mark.

I turn around, swim back.

Shade from your chestnut tree

casts its shadow on my white blouse.

You are close by, the river has

thinned, its banks nearly touch.

You rise, stand across from me,

hands on hips, tell me to go home,

tell mom not to hold your supper.