After my mother's funeral, escaping the wake

we found a table, my husband, my cousin,

my best friend and me.

A nostalgic pause in Saltaire, site

of our sixties childhoods.

Quiet talk of Saturday jobs at Anne's sweet shop,

of work experience at the local vets.

The Olive Café seemed safe territory

until my brother's deep voice from another table

sucked me back from the past.

I guess he too was chasing better days.

He and his in-laws rose to leave,

filed past, eyes averted.

He paused, one hand gripping the door jamb.

You did okay with the funeral,

he said. And left.

Final resting place for my brother and me.

Bittersweet memories of happier times

in blithe laughter of strangers, two tables down.