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IN ONE OF THE LAST DAYS IN HER MOTHER'S HOUSE

LYN LIFSHIN


months after I drove
up for the funeral
that seemed a dress
rehearsal. In the
kitchen, the
calendar her mother
marked the days
she planted seeds on
and when they flowered
still hanging. The same
window ledges we
sat on plotting
diets, ways to get some
boy who wasn’t
a bore to come to
the Junior Women’s Club
dance or hay ride.
“You’re both too smart,”
our mothers said,
“you scare them.”
The same wide maple
floors we sprawled on,
seeing ourselves in
Paris lofts or
some Greenwich Village
attic where I’d paint
and she’d write.
Neither of us still
live in this New England
calendar town we’d
trudge through snow
in, watch Life Magazine
come to shoot the
white Congregational
Church after a
storm, but are back
to deal with what’s
unravelled. We waited
for our periods to begin
together, wonder now
if what seemed a nuisance
like so much --
calling home, giving
numbers we could
be reached at or
getting good grades, will
like other things that
seemed so ordinary,
too soon be longed for



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