I see the living room:
The image is golden and dusty
As if seen through a pane of dirty glass.
A thousand little porcelain shoes,
Are lined up on the table
Next to the couch were she lies.

This one vision,
Synchronous with all others of her
Like the smell of the house, her house.
Musty and thick with the clashing and coinciding scents
Of her beloved antiques and strong perfume.
This picture, emblazoned in my mind,
Gives way to another room.
The air is different,
Still thick, but now with the overly sweet
Smell of too many flowers in on place.

I can’t remember if I was sad,
But I remember crying.
For even I understood the significance
Of the long box among the flowers.
It is warm in my eyes.
The brown wood hallowed in yellow light
And juxtaposed against cream flowers
And the soft snow of  her hair
As she lies asleep in her wooden bed.