In Romania,
the grandmothers discuss
what outfits
to be buried in,
with the same airiness
that they would use
for trading recipes.
One just bought a pair of shoes
two sizes too small,
but they were exquisite,
and on sale,
so she has cut the backs off,
since she’ll be laying down
after all.
Another plans on surprising everyone
by wearing a fancy red dress,
while another declares
she will wear
her stretchiest
pants.
They laugh
as they share plans
for which underwear,
and they are quiet
as one explains
how she has arranged
to be placed on top
of her late husband’s coat.
But this is not
a sad conversation.
None of these women are sick
or know when they will die.
They only know they will,
and instead of hiding this fact
away in the dark
like we do here,
they toss it back and forth
with a comforting pragmatism,
decorating it
with love and lipstick,
and a glorious faith
that this life
has a sequel.