Day 408

She is touching the earth
around her ruined house
to see what it tells her.
She has come back
to see what remains.
You are still here, it says, though
you are the only one.
She is touching this ground
for what she knows will be
the last time:  tomorrow
she will leave for another place,
she will gather her few things
in the backpack that’s all
she has left of her child
and be displaced again.
You will remember me
 always, the dark soil is saying,
Don’t fear that you will forget me.
Here was where you planted
orange trees with your grandfather.
Here was where your grandmother
took her last breath.  She reaches
into it with her fingers, brings it
to her nose to take in
its fragrance, puts a small handful
in the pocket of her coat.  You are all
I take with me, she says; but already
she’s afraid the dirt is turning
away from her, holding its own
grief, not wanting to keep her.