My wife was only fifty when she died,
And all the family came to sit with me
In sneakers and black dresses; we all tried
To think how beautiful she used to be,
And held the children closely when they
      cried.

It’s twenty years since then; now, as I ride
The subway I see people dressed in black
Wool sweaters. I keep trying to decide
Why some of them wear sneakers in the
      snow.
I can’t help staring sometimes, yet inside
I feel things I’d forgotten coming back.
Who are they mourning for, I’d like to know?

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