Sometimes, she’d bring blueberry pie to Andy
as he painted, near his window. He worked
up there all summer, often from memory.
There’d be no prayers at her burial in 20 years.
One morning now, he saw, upon the stairs,
dust had been crawled across before he came—
Christina had made a trail across the floor
as she had visited the tempera he painted.
He had seen her as she crawled her grassy field
toward the house. Andy often painted
here, even after his own dad died,
close to where her mother and father were buried.