You left Wednesday, Marge, before
I could return Friday to take down details
of your 79 years for the obit.

You’ve been in hospice for only
two weeks, moved to independent
living less than a month ago, and

though I haven’t married your brother,
you’ve been the sorta sister-in-law I didn’t
know I needed for three decades now.

Yesterday, an hour before sunset—
the last one you would see,
as it happened—before your brother

and I left you half asleep on the sofa,
I asked if we might talk about details
for what I called “your after-story.”

“You can tell me to buzz off, if that’s
not something you want to do,” I said.
And you, under your soft, heated

blanket with its little red gauge
beaming, smiled and said, “Sure,”
and I asked, “Friday?” and you said,

“Sure,” as your brother and husband
talked quietly behind us. I’d brought
what turned out to be your

final batch of custards—just four
instead of the usual eight because
you were barely eating.

I hope you had part of one, that
some of your last bites on Earth,
what slipped down your parched

throat as your struggling heart
slowed and stuttered, were of that
smooth eggy-ness your mother

used to make, which you taught me
to make, along with your creamy
cheesecake, your late son’s favorite,

which I hope they have waiting
for you in your heaven. Where I’m sure
they’ve been readying your party

with all things pink—your color—
from balloons to streamers,
and a good traditional jazz band

you can dance to along with
a whole crew of your beloveds,
hands and hearts extended,

who’ve been expecting you.
I hope you heard your mother’s
gentle voice calling you

—Margery!—
summoning you from play
in the yard with your brothers,

Time to come home!
And you, beloved daughter,
sister, wife, mother, friend,

went, quietly,
as was your way,
eager to join the party.

•••

In memory of Margery Ann Schmidt Malekian Thompson
Aug. 13, 1946–Aug. 27, 2025