Justena, Justina

She drops to her knees, carrots and beets pulled from the garden moments earlier spill from her arms, cheek against soil, next to the memory of home.

§:§:§

The neighbourhood measures his song, listens to how he buried her in a place reserved for a loving wife. When he welcomes the youngest daughter next door, women cover their eyes with fanned fingers, husbands nod in approval.

Soft hands carry warm casseroles between back porches, presses his Sunday suit, puts a spit-shine on a mahogany dining table.

Beneath rooftop shadows, she carts off pieces of his life from the old country, slips them into her mother’s home for safekeeping. Where the pieces rest comfortably.

Soon, a mother-in-law arrives, suitcases in hand. She clears the way for a new fashion of keeping house and ushers his daughters to tight-fisted husbands who shine vermouth.

—–§:§:§

Justina wanders through wet grass and muddy fields foraging the land of her birth.

She falls asleep, her lips pressed against the memory of her children’s names. In the darkness, her fingers trace their bodies, twist a green nightgown into rope. In the darkness, she tosses the rope out the window and climbs home.