Where is Barbara?

Last week, when her heart stopped,

she vanished into the widespread,

became imperceptible, 

indistinct.

And yet, just before she left,

she was a thousand particulars—

audible,

specific:

the excitement she felt

about the stall she’d booked 

for us writers

at the Christmas market,

about the poster I made

featuring our names 

for others to find us

amid the crowd, 

about the introduction she’d make

between the owner and me,

rejoicing in the chance 

of a new friendship, 

the letter she wrote 

to the radio host, 

asking for a plug-in, 

the ‘Yes’

that came back 

for a fee she thought 

a bargain,  

the tablecloth she’d bring

with the bag of candies

and the green boughs

and the twinkling lights

she’d drape around our books,

the second-hand clothes

she’d pulled from her wardrobe

for her son to sell

at the stall beside ours, 

the photos she sent 

of handbags and hats 

sprawled on her kitchen floor, 

and the message she wrote

about discovering a great 

pair of shoes she’d wear,

followed by four emojis—

two with hearts,

one with its tongue out,

one with tears of joy. 

‘Shall we lunch

at an Indian restaurant

for Christmas?’ she asked.

She didn’t want to trouble us,

but I insisted we cook for her,

since she’d always cooked 

the best curries—

only this time we planned 

to make her stuffed peppers.

‘What’s your favourite dessert?’

I asked, and she replied, ‘Apple pie.’

That’s it, I thought.I’ll surprise her with it

on the 25^th

when she comes to mine. 

‘There’ll be another stand 

with two girls selling vintage

at the market’, she wrote, 

which I made light of 

by saying ‘Right, 

let’s show our cleavage then,’

and she laughed 

the way I knew she would, 

the way she always did 

at mischief or anything boobish. 

‘I am getting excited now,’ she said.

‘Shall we pick you up 

in the car on Saturday

to go to the market?’

‘That would be great’, I replied.

Amid her excitement

there was an hour I grew quiet,

my answers brief. 

She even asked if I was all right,

and I wish I’d been more buoyant.

I’d just woken up

from an accidental nap,

groggy, unaware

she would soon 

be dead.

The market came and went

without Barbara there, 

and now Christmas lunch is here, 

and she is still nowhere

but in the thinking

that keeps her—

her particulars

rearranged in the apple pie

I just baked for her,

and the table I set

with the bowl of sweets

and the cherry twigs,

and the angel lights

I draped around the gift

she will not open, 

and the new friend I’m meeting

for a coffee this afternoon, 

and the low-cut blouse I’ll wear

with the moth-eaten boots 

that are old enough to be thrown,

and the letter I wrote,

asking if she’s really gone, 

and the ‘Yes’ that came back 

in the silence she left behind.