No one tells you
when you’ve entered
sacred space.
The time we met on Kauai
watching the rain
sweep over the bay
and the mists hang heavy
on the crenelated cliffs
and the surf reach in
and pull back.
When we indulged
in hotel tiramisu
(that we would talk about
for years), and met the lady
in the lobby
who sold perfumes
in round wooden sachets.
You bought two,
handed me one,
and even when the perfume
ran out I was never able
to throw that ball
away.
And today
your husband’s package
arrives, and folded into
the shirts and the ring
that you used to wear
and the disc of photos
and his gracious note
is your perfume sachet,
round and wooden,
glowing just a little.
I cup it and wonder
if we would have done
anything differently,
had we known we were
on holy ground
