The kind you’re born with, the kind you choose, the kind that teach Catholic school
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Without her glasses she couldn’t see,
so she’d touch her thumb to the bristles
of the two toothbrushes
to figure out which one I’d used,
then she would use the other.
October, cold air filled with smoke,
the tear-off calendar
on our bedroom wall
thinning through the waning year.
I’d thought there’d be so much to say,
but it turned out to be simple:
what we wanted changed.
What was strange
was how sweet we were
with each other,
even near the end: handing her glasses
to her, standing side by side
at the window in the morning,
watching the children
gather at the bus stop on the corner,
waiting in the heavy rain.