the sun is bright, but the air cold
imported from a where the sun has yet to build
sufficiency
my grandfather died Monday
my mother called with the calm, tired version
of the discussion we wouldn’t have when it was
my father, her love
but the same as my husband’s mother’s calls:
Aunt Joan, Aunt Margaret, Aunt Alice
around the circumstance, through the circle
of who will be home
I ask —should I come?
my mother begs—I don’t know, I don’t know
it’s remarkably graceful
how she steps down and shies away from watching
as i step into place
I remember when she took this space
one step in front of dad, when she took grandmother’s keys
–cars may be big, but tricycles are small, mom
grandmother left the room and returned, leaving the keys
and one whole life, in my mother’s hand.
it isn’t children,
babies buy you time as entourage, accessories
to the fact that time is relentless, and needy
ignoring the inevitable until the unintended
betrayals mount.
my parents never grew old together, just older
and shared this space until she closed his eyes
two years of being the finest adult among us, and she’s done
in his frailty, grandfather defined her strong
now she is more simply, left
the infrastructure of what was is gone
my husband understands and stretches the thread further
into our future
–we’ll need to plan for the family now
and buy the dinners out
my voice loses the most of my questions
and returns settled in purpose,
determinant
it isn’t the children we raise
but the adults we care for
defining this age
-should I come- crumbled the stance i measured against
i plant my feet hard
hoarding the memories of all who made me
and dare the wind blow.