Summers I Remember

Summers I remember,
Bluejays rasping in the black walnut tree
Out the spare room window
Of my grandmother's house,
Dappled light filtering gold
Through orchard leaves behind the house,
Fat bumblebees in the roses,
And just outside the kitchen door
My own stout grandmother,
Nana Rose.

"We'll bring flowers to Grandpa's grave today," she said,
And into the car, and down from her house,
Down long Butte House Road
We drove to Sutter,
Where more souls rest in the district graveyard
Than hearts beat in the town.
If the dead could vote, they'd run the place.
But this is not Illinois.

We left the car and stepped onto the grass,
One, two, three rows back,
Into the cool shade of a wide valley oak,
Where his name lay etched in stone.

A metal cup was in the stone.
I drew it out and walked it to a water tap.
She called to me:
"Don't cross the graves, dear—
"Step around."

Why? Bad luck? Disrespect?
Or just to slow my dawdling steps
That much more--
So she could take her sweet, sweet time
There, alone with him again,
Standing over what would one day be
Her own snug grave.

I ran the tap.
Around me, set in close-cut grass,
Flat stones bore silent testament:
One name, two dates for most,
And here a loving mother, there a Mason.
So many passed so long ago
That stone alone remembers them.

I filled the cup, walked it back,
And slipped it into place.
And then I watched her fill it further still
With fresh, sweet roses
Cut that morning
Outside the kitchen door.