It was a quiet time. The passing car, the snap
of the letterbox, gave way to silence. I filled
the bins with papers, plastics, cans. The house
was empty. I served tea and cakes to guests,
Come in, it’s good to see you. They filled
the house with talk, and left it silent.
But memory has courage now. Traces begin
to seem not lost but there: her hazel eyes
a little down in disappointment, to the left in thought,
or luminous in nimble understanding, or soft
with gentle love. Her voice, as if
recorded, her Hel-lo, her I don’t
think? so, all her laughs. Her eyes
in my mind’s eye, her gentle voice
contending with the silence. This
is a good phantom, passing every day
from room to room, making grief lie still.