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Old Love

BY PAT MORA
When my aunt died,
my uncle raised his hands
like a prophet in the Bible.
“I've lost my girl,” he said,
“I've lost my girl,” over and over,
shaking his head.

I didn't know what to say,
where to look,
my quiet uncle raising his voice
to silence.

My aunt was eighty-seven.
“Listen,” my uncle said, sighing
like a tree alone at night,
“women know.
Every midnight on New Year's Eve,
when others sang
and laughed and hugged,
your aunt looked at me,
tears in her eyes.
Sixty years.
She knew.
One day, we'd kiss good-bye.”

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