My husband died five years ago
after twenty-five years of marriage.
At first, I missed him very much,
felt the lack of his presence
throughout the day.

But that has changed.
I began to hear his voice.

Coming in from walking the dog in the park,
"My God, Mary, look at that kitchen floor.
Can’t you ever remember to wipe your shoes?"
Balancing the checkbook, "Is it too much
trouble to fill out the stubs for checks you write?"
In the evenings, "Are all of those lights necessary?"
Soaking in the tub ‘til the wee hours
of the morning, "Are you coming to bed, or what?"

Next, I found my dogpark shoes
coming off in the garage,
my kitchen floor shining,
checkbook records complete,
lights not needed, off.
With more chores, I was up earlier,
to bed before eleven.

Then, the other day, I looked in the mirror
and there we both were.

She died at 92 and a half,
mother, aunt, grandmother,
great grandmother to far-flung survivors.
They gather at the funeral home
to affirm family, celebrate a life.
Recall her loss of a young daughter,
the premature death of her husband,
her second life as significant other,
educator, world traveler.
Note her proclivity to lie with what
she truly believed was a straight face,
her love of fun and nonsense.

Later, at a restaurant
after the food and wine,
her grandson unexpectedly asks,
"What about those Birdmen?"
Everyone grins.
Three generations, as one person,
make circles of each thumb and index finger,
extend their elbows,
twirl their palms outward
until the remaining fingers
fit under their chins,
raise the circles to their eyes and sing lustily,
"Into the air Junior Birdmen, into the air
upside down..."