I wander the rooms where I have spent
my life in surrender under the terms agreed
upon long ago.  I touch the bits and pieces
of our accumulated past and wonder at
the twists and turns that have brought
us to this broken promise.

I gaze out the windows at the trees I helped
plant, the lawn I mowed, the rose bushes
I have fed and pruned.  Here.  This place
where I thought I would die.

I drive down the familiar road that has seen
our comings and goings, past
the homes of a family I considered mine.
I was stupid.  I only thought they were my family.
Now they shun me and whisper to
each other of my crime of needing something more,
or something less,
just something that I can't find here.

I walk through the snow in the cemetery where
I once had picnics with my babies.  We spread  our
blankets over the graves of the people
whose blood runs through their small veins.
Sandwiches, laughter, books read after we
cleaned the graves and planted flowers for the
coming years. Nothing but memories now.

I was once sure I would be buried here, that
"we"  would be buried here.  Now I know
I will never be laid to rest under the oaks
and pines that stand guard over the final
resting places of people who joined together to
bring him to me and gave our children
the pale blue of their eyes and
the texture of  their hair.

"No tears," I say aloud.  No cries of sorrow or
disappointment.  It is done.  It has been
done for more years than I can count.
I knew my place and brought forth sons to carry
on your names and work your land and honor
your memory.  I have always been
a stranger to you anyway, with my city ways
and big words and too tender heart.

I throw my dreams for the future
into the cold, crisp air and walk away.
This part of my life is finished.