The Day After Memorial Day

Amy Haddad

I hug the South Lawn Road
as far as it wanders so I can find his grave.
Tiny and gray, a woman I do not know
waits next to her car while I park by the pine
that marks the family plot.
I smile briefly in her direction
as she watches me cross the road.
No salutation, she just starts
I couldn’t come yesterday. . .
my husband,
she nods to the left, a field of rusty war monuments.
Unsure whether to stop
or get on with it, I walk over to her.
The clutch of white peonies I hold by my side are floppy
with dew dripping down my leg.
I am late too.
My father, I nod in the direction of the pine tree.
She leans against the car so she can
tug up her pant leg to show me
It’s these bug bites kept me from coming.
Ulcers deep and weeping
one on her skinny ankle, another on her shin.
I stoop down to get a better look, wince
at the pain, though know she feels none.
It’s okay if you’re late, they understand,
she says as she lets the pant leg drop.