Old Love

When my aunt died,

my uncle raised his hands

like a prophet in the Bible.

“I’ve lost my girl,” he said,

“I’ve lost my girl,” over and over,

shaking his head.

I didn’t know what to say,

where to look,

my quiet uncle raising his voice

to silence.

My aunt was eighty-seven.

“Listen,” my uncle said, sighing

like a tree alone at night,

“women know.

Every midnight on New Year’s Eve,

when others sang

and laughed and hugged,

your aunt looked at me,

tears in her eyes.

Sixty years.

She knew.

One day, we’d kiss good-bye.”