(for Mom)

Two months after you die, we have your house
cleaned out and ready for renovation.

Three months after you die, on a cloudy day,
I drive from my town to yours to pick up
from the cleaners a couple of Grandma‘s
afghans we found in your linen cupboard.

And because I’m nearby, I head to the car wash
where I went every Monday between your
appointments in the oxygen chamber
and later the chiropractor—with lunch
in between at your favorite restaurant.

Along the way I stop to extend the gratitudes,
yours and mine, to a couple of the people
who felt great affection for you in your final years,
who were so kind to you—the ones who looked
forward to your arrival, who treated you
so specially.

From Mel (she’s now the manager)
who automatically brought you a tall flute
of champagne with a jaunty strawberry slice
on the rim

to Chloe at the chiropractor’s,
who hoisted you twice a week into
the oxygen chamber for your hour
of pure O2 and a good nap.

All this, you were convinced,
contributed to your ongoing healing
and longevity—not least the champagne.
And it probably did.

Whether or not the procedures
extended your years on the planet,
you swam in this pool of goodwill,
filled with so much kindness from
folks a good half century younger
than you—people who clearly
made a difference in your life,

as you, they now tell me,
did for them.