There was a road from whence I came,
from where my whole life's sadness resided day in and day out,
it was not a dismal or gloomy path,
but one paved with dirt and flowers that were change by people unknown to me,
it was lined with the ghosts of my family,
the apparitions and the specters of my childhood,
and nowadays,
the toys that should have been wilted by something other than the rain,
we were a weathered brood,
sometimes worse for the wear,
but all too unfamiliar with pity,
and each time the car pulled out of the driveway,
one more went back from whence they came,
back there,
in the cold,
in the ground,
and I was having trouble recalling what we ate for luncheon that Friday in December,
I used to remember,
very much so, in fact,
all the little details,
about minute mysteries, and the pink pitcher with the good ice,
I used to remember sadness better,
but when I cannot,
I go further back in my mind,
to whence she made me smile
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