My sister’s note is still
taped to the pole lamp in
the living room on our mother’s
well-trod route through
the house.

I cannot bear to remove
it just yet, though Mom’s
innumerable trips pushing
the red walker ended
21 days ago, and she
faded into the hereafter
14 days ago.

I stand in this room where
another lamp glows—
the mystery light, she called
it, the touch lamp that turns
on unbidden.

We have tried to make it
come on by stomping near it
or bumping the table where
it sits, but it remains
stubbornly dark—until a
hand ignites it.

As she walker’d her way into
that room, Mom would often call,
“Light’s on!” though no one had
touched it. She loved that, she
who strongly believed in unseen
energy illuminating her path.

Two days ago, when I brought
her home in a heavy plastic box,
the lamp was on.

I lingered there in the room
of the living, looking at my
sister’s handwriting taped to
the dark pole lamp, then at
the mystery light glowing,
and spoke the words I’ve been
saying for two weeks to
no one and everyone:

Thankyouthankyouthankyou.