I was not his first love. That was her.
Beautiful and dead at twenty. What
Mature woman could compete with that?
We named our eldest daughter after her.
Ellen. He asked. I agreed. You see I knew.
Ellen would be my child and not his wife
In time. Though I did not then comprehend
how long In Time could be when one is married.
Now I know. Now I have learned In Time.
My name he changed. From Lydia to Lidian.
He needed something grander I suppose.
Jackson or Emerson, I knew who I was.
My Asia as well. And Mrs. Emerson
When he was cross. A sweet man, all in all,
even sweeter as he faded late.
Waldo, we lost. Broke his heart, and mine.
After Waldo nothing was the same.
Dear Henry too. Nothing more to say.
And the house. My old house, burned away.
We sent him off. I was the one to stay
And try to put our seasons back in place.
He went to Eqypt. Edith came to me.
If that was not our life, then I don’t know.
He mourned his books. I mourned, what did I mourn?
A cushion I had mended just that day.
A hat that I had always meant to wear.
A pie left cooling on the window sill.
Did I mourn there was no more to mourn?
No, my accumulations were not singed.
She had two years. I had forty-seven.
She the preacher, I the famous sage.
She the passion, I the children,
She the life and I the living.
She was his first and maybe only love.
But it was my quince apple pie
That made him who he was.