Nobody knows where Mary went.
We only know she didn´t die.
Maybe she took her Angora cat
From the wicker chair where it always sat,
And packed her clothes, with their lavender scent,
And left – but she didn´t die.
Nobody saw her go away.
Nobody saw her leave the door.
Somehow – like a tintype, yellow with age,
Or a penciled scrawl on a crumbling page –
She faded in some anonymous way,
To be seen and heard no more.
Nobody knows why she doesn´t stir;
She hasn´t been seen about since fall.
But the curtains look fresh in her living room,
The hedges are clipped and the lilacs bloom.
Maybe she´d come if you called to her.
Maybe she never left at all.