(for Donna)

Second from the left wall,
separated from my sister’s by a sink,
hers always so much tidier than mine.

Lately, in emptying those drawers,
she has pulled out the snarl of yarn bits
and hair ribbons and released them

into their hereafter, along with other stuff
I must have ignored when I left that house
in 1979, about to be a senior in college,

far more preoccupied with moving into
my first apartment and my duties as editor
of the college newspaper, certain that I’d

never live in that house again. And I didn’t.
Now, with our mother gone, my sister and I
tug the roots of our family tree from

every cupboard, every drawer, each one
a time capsule that elicits groans and smiles,
saddened and charmed in the remembering.

Here’s my pink hand mirror with its
girly flowers on one side, dusty but still
serviceable. And here’s an assortment

of barrettes, my favorite the leather peace
symbol with a stick through it that I poked
through my unruly blonde hair. Here’s

my retainer, looking like a creepy
wire-and-plastic bug, and a fine-toothed
yellow comb. The faithful Mickey Mouse

nightlight—always have a nightlight
in the bathroom, our mother insisted,
as I do in mine to this day.

What’s not there, long gone, is the piece
of binder paper on which I painstakingly
printed the times tables, 2s through 12s,

once taped to the wall next to the toilet,
to help me memorize them. Not my idea,
but, my father said, What else do you have

to do while you’re sitting there?
My two-years-younger sister stitched
those sums into her mind far sooner

than I, who still can’t tell you what 6 x 12
amounts to. But, as I said way back then,
I can write you a poem. Isn’t that better?