Winter, Eggs

I thought of Denice
In the deli section of Atkin’s Market
Because she used to work there
(I saw her, for an instant,
under the fluorescents, in that stupid red
apron Mr. Atkins made her wear.)
And I thought, don’t forget to call her,
and did I remember the eggs?

Walking uphill, into the wind,
hugging the groceries, scarred
and shrivelled apples from the orchard
underfoot.  I’m trying to name the song
that was on the Muzak.
Thinking also of an omelette
and a strong cup of coffee.
A winter lunch.

Gretchen is waiting at the top of the driveway
Too pale, not waving, hugging her body
Where is her coat?
When I reach her she tells me,
“Put down the groceries,”
so I balance them on the hood of a car.
“– something to tell you.  Denice –“
Call her.  Eggs.  Got them.
“– was on that plane.  That we saw
on the news.”
Explosion.

Grass on fire.
Seatbelts hanging from trees.
The groceries start to slide. 
Gretchen steadies them.
My voice is like ice creaking
and shattering under our feet.

I remember
The song on the Muzak was “Fire and Rain”
And I saw her, for an instant
Her brown arms on the counter
Giggling with me about Hank Armstrong
Asking if I wanted to go swimming
at the reservoir, when she got off work
But that was summer.
We are deep in winter now.
The reservoir is silent, choked with ice.
I remembered the eggs, and I came home
And next I would have called her.

We head inside.  Gretchen carries
the groceries.
Later, she puts them away.
Snowy white eggs, whole and perfect.
Safely away in the refrigerator.