Alexandra Wilcox Verse-Virtual 2016 March

March 2016

I am a recovering attorney. I live with my husband, five children, and two rescue dogs in Atlanta, Georgia where I am an online Professor in Employment and Labor Law and pursuing my doctorate in Global Education. I enjoy trying new restaurants and going to the movie theater. My poems are scheduled to appear in Quatrain.Fish, Scarlet Leaf Review, and other journals.

I Still See You

In the grocery store.
It can’t be you.
The cold tile floor.

I stare. Your perfect mole.
Your brown tattooed eyebrows. Gentle arch.
You glance. Find my freckled face.

Sniff lemons, I say. Step closer.
Smell Chanel. Red St. John knit.
I reach. Pretend to like lemons.

We don’t speak. Your last words,
“I am going to kill you —
for bringing me here.”

At night,
I ask if you hear.
Run my fingers over the dates on your grave.

But, during the day,
in the store,
the lemons never seem to be out of season.

Author's Note: My mom died after a 3.5 year battle with pancreatic cancer. She was my best friend. One day, while my Dad was out, she started getting sick. I called 911. She begged me not to take her to the hospital. I refused. My family was mad and said she had a bleeding ulcer and I overreacted. She regained her sensibilities in the ER and looked across the room at me and said — "I'll kill you for bringing me here." She wouldn't speak to me. A few hours later the doctors experienced a white out. She was profusely bleeding internally. She was in the hospital for a week in a medically-induced coma until we removed support. The poem reflects my struggle in dealing with her loss. At times I swore I saw her — in the grocery store, at the car wash or mall. I wanted to see her. I needed her last words to me to be different. For some reason, I'd start seeking out places she might be. Eventually, I just arrived at the conclusion that no matter when you go, regardless of the season, the only constant is - the grocery store always has lemons.