Transmogrified

Cracking through Jen’s  crème brûlée

reminds her of children, small and quick,

gone in the wink of an eye when

the Spring ice failed. “Mmmmm,

delicious!” Were there three of them?

Or only one? Past time now to smile

and nod at Whosit’s recitation.

Traumas and victories.  Can he be so

heroic? Can she need to pee AGAIN?

This is not her hallway, not the center

of the home where she pauses to

listen as echoes of babies snuggling

tight, toddlers calling their shoes,

teenagers thinking no one knows

what they’re up to and the husband

bellowing. Voices here are fresh,

alive – daughter and Whosit.

“Whoops. Time to go home. Yes…

really…late for an old lady. Ha ha

ha ha no really.”

Old homes want more care:

Wiring left well enough alone

but you can’t use that plug;

buckets in the right places;

subfloors creaking under the years;

windows warping in a wavy world.

“I’m alright, really, I’m fine fine fine.

Good night!”

~~~

I like to keep a clean sheet

between skin and blankets,

for smooth and to rest the old

washing machine.

Blankets are heavy when wet

~~~

Some old ladies were keening,

some cooking oatmeal, some still

snoring; but this one sat plump on

the front stoop, not feeling smoke

in the air, that whiff of plastic and

teddy bear. Houses burn in the

canyons, but man must build.

It could have stopped there.

But Jack’s warm rump needed a pat

while his snout dripped cool snot

on the concrete. “That’ll leave a

mark.” Death muffles Harold’s bellow,

“Ah labs, ya gotta love ‘em.”

Doves wake and cars hum.

Bustling Jeep with daughter

inside bounced up the drive,

woke Jack but aching hips

slowed him down so she

sauntered up with no muddy

paws planted square in her middle.

Jen likes it better that way

but the old lady’s not so sure.

And the way ahead looks rocky.

Breath catches, but Mom puts on pantyhose for her appointment

with the future.

Which, yes, did look pretty bleak.

Was that Harold again? Towards

the end everything looked pretty

bleak to him. But no. Really. Bleak

is when a 20-something female in a

navy suit calls you “Evelyn” in that

high voice acting sweet when we all

know what she’s after. “You can call

me Mrs. Murray. No thank you, I do

not want to enjoy a complementary

lunch in your lovely facility. I am needed

at home.” Jen has that look in her eye

and a quick escape is called for.

“Pretty bleak” “quick escape,”

Harold’s voice in my ears, while I wish

I could hear what Jen is saying so fast

And loud but I am

SO TIRED.

Home for a nap and a wandery

afternoon. That’s why god

invented slippers. Gardening.

Cooked dinner for Jack.

Talked on the phone.

Neighbors understand an old woman

wants to die with her memories around her.

Why can’t Jen?

~~~

Spark in the wiring probably started it,

but the smoke billowed iridescent,

with tempera paint,

talcum powder,

and just a hint of Milkbone.

~~~