ragged ends

After the meeting, I asked her how she was.
She looked well, after all; and it had been a year
since the funeral. The colour was back in her cheeks
and in her clothing, so I thought it was all right
to ask. She smiled and told me she had been
Christmas shopping in Montréal and
was having dinner with some friends that evening.
But as she turned away, I heard a sip, an intake
a breath that wanted to be something else. For
a moment she glanced back at me, her mouth open;
her eyes reddened, moist, fierce.
I saw a howl forming; she sighed and smiled.
She went over to join her friends who turned to
include her. Abruptly she patted one on the hand
and turned back to me. It must be pretty hard,
I said. It’s as if I’ve stopped making memories,
she said. Joy without memories is too painful.
I want to scream, but I can’t; so I keep talking.
At least that’s what I understood, but she was still
talking to her friends, and I was helpless watching.