(for Catherine O’Brien)

On a hot Sacramento evening
you invited us to your backyard
for martinis and conversation—

something that even those of us
who don’t drink did not want to miss—
and thank goodness we didn’t,

for what a delight to sit with women
who gather weekly as Shelley works
us out, chatting and sampling goodies

under the big umbrella, mister misting,
when the accordion was mentioned.
And though you hadn’t played in

four or more years—in the before
times when some of our loved ones
were still themselves, before

illness and infirmity crept upon
them—you fetched your glossy
black and white instrument

and slid the old straps over your
shoulders. Your fingers found their
way to buttons and keys that hadn’t

known your touch in ages, sending
tunes bouncing through the air
like magic from one of the most

challenging of instruments.
My late aunt, an accordionist from
childhood, said it was like playing

a tiny piano with bagpipes
inside—with too many places to
put your fingers. And though

you stumbled and stopped and
swore, you kept playing at our
urging, we, your friends,

delighted by the sounds,
singing along—You are my
sunshine, my only sunshine.

We who have grown close
thanks to ones who can no
longer join us, we who’ve

spent so many mornings
exercising together—You make
me happy when skies are gray.

It’s true—you’ll never know,
dear ones, how much we’ve
come to love each other.

Please don’t take
my sunshine
away.