26 January 2012

I hold her in my hands—ashes inside a box
I feel her hand, swollen, squeezing mine,
trying to let me know she knows I am here.
I see the fingers when they were slim, tracing loops onto loose strips of paper—
envelops, letters, the backs of receipts—
the white spaces covered in daisies, vines, leaves, swirls
I watch her hand move and flow

I recognize her name without reading the letters on the box
I see her at a table, rewriting the letter she has carefully drafted,
signing, again, her name, with strained effort
so as not to reveal in its wavering lines the shaking that unsteadies her.
I see her signature on a birthday card sent in the mail;
“Happy Day!” appears in a large, perfect, girl-like cursive.
I perch on a stool at a kitchen table—half on its surface with my hands and body,
half-off with my shins tucked under me and resting on the seat of the stool,
feet dangling off,
and I watch her squeeze bright pink-frosting letters
onto a smoothly painted white-frosting canvas: H-a-
Her “a” has the serif top line that only she took the time to add to
cakes, notes, letters, lists.

I feel her weight—nothing but ashes in this box
Heavier and heavier
they pull me back…
and back

I hold her in my hands