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bereft, mourning 57 The Widow Takes Delivery of His Ashes on Beacon Hill Gail Gilliland The mortician delivered your ashes today— Green box, gold seal, like a Christmas gift. They weighed more than expected in my hand And I wanted to tell you that the neighbor you called “the Nazi”— Because he policed the street for garbage and unstickered cars— Had heard me call to the mortician when he arrived: “Mr. Spencer? Just pull up on the sidewalk over here!” The Nazi cried: “Oh no you don’t! We don’t want people Pulling up on our sidewalks to break the bricks!” After the mortician, a Southie, had parked his van, He walked over to the Nazi, pushed his Irish face up close to his (It was scarred—but from what, I wondered, a burn?) And said: “Where I come from, Mister, People show a widow some respect!” I didn’t mean to collapse, but did. I used to tell people I would never be lonely, Never be bored, that not even Life in a nursing home Would make me flinch. “Just give me a library,” I bragged, “A pad of paper, a pen, and I’ll be all fixed!” It isn’t true, I can tell you now. I’m scared as hell. I don’t know where you are, Why you don’t walk down the hall Wearing your old blue sweater with the leather sleeves And sit down across from me as I try to read And interrupt me again and again as you always did. I promise I won’t be cross if you try again. I won’t give you that look: Now what? I made you so lonely And that breaks my heart. ...

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