There's my younger sister bending gracefully
toward the headstone
Susanna reaching out her hand
her fingers pressed against
the chiselled letters
of our great-uncle's last name

She's standing in what looks like stocking feet
close by the grave with it's rectangular
border of stone or concrete
very orderly
as befits a Protestant graveyard
stranded as it were in foreign territory

The grave itself is overgrown with weeds
but now she's planted yellow mums
or marigolds
by the headstone
nothing gaudy
just the perfect touch
to add a bit of grace
an air of dignity

I can't help wondering who took the photos
it must have been a friend she's visiting
in Istanbul
because there is no mention
of her husband Ismail
who I imagine this time stayed behind
in Izmir

Was my sister thinking as she planted
the flowers how this man we never knew
had once been married
to our great-aunt Anna
our grandfather's sister
who had died in childbirth
long before we came along
and for whom Susanna
had been named

so many questions I'd be asking
this grave's occupant had he not died
seventy years ago come August
when I had just turned nine
but my questions have their best
their truest answer
already chiselled on the headstone
in plain sight
birth and death and finally the love
quoting Saint John
that's greatest of all things
human and divine