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We Are Always Too Late
par
Eavan Boland
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Memory Is in two parts. First the re-visiting: the way even now I can see those lovers at the café table. She is weeping. It is New England, breakfast time, winter. Behind her, outside the picture window, is a stand of white pines. New snow falls and the old, losing its balance in the branches, showers down, adding fractions to it. Then The re-enactment. Always that. I am getting up, pushing away coffee. Always I am going towards her. The flush and scald is to her forehead now, and back down to her neck. I raise onе hand. I am pointing to those trees, I am showing her our need for thesе beautiful upstagings of what we suffer by what survives. And she never even sees me.
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