Ever since a psychiatrist schooled me
in the kind of loss he called ambiguous,
telling me someone I loved would never be
herself again—gone but not gone, there but
not there, just occupying the same space—
I still expect to meet a clear-cut loss
but haven’t yet. Whenever I lose something,
it haunts until it’s lost to memory.
My grandma in her bathrobe of light denim
hovers behind me as I set out spoons
or wipe the counter, takes my hand as I say grace
before adding a sprig of watercress
to a drab plate, round as the harvest moon
that rose quick as her blinds when the tide brimmed.
Grey Sparrow Journal 