Ours are the streets where Bess first met her cancer.
She went to work every day past the secure houses.
At her job in the library she arranged better and better flowers, and when students asked for books her hand went out to help.
In the last year of her life she had to keep her friends from knowing how happy they were.
She listened while they complained about food or work or the weather.
And the great national events danced their grotesque, fake importance.
Always Pain moved where she moved.
She walked ahead; it came.
She hid; it found her.
No one ever served another so truly; no enemy ever meant so strong a hate.
It was almost as if there was no room left for her on earth.
But she remembered where joy used to live.
She straightened its flowers; she did not weep when she passed its houses; and when finally she pulled into a tiny corner and slipped from pain, her hand opened again, and the streets opened, and she wished all well.
