The light lacy and muted on her last day,
the year’s shortest, barely squinting
through a heavy curtain of clouds,
the impending goodbye looming.

She did not want to go,
though her body disagreed—
a brittle cocoon of her former self,
her breath butterfly faint.

I need to find some light, I said
on this day that held so little of it,
knowing that every one hereafter
would gain a minute of brightness
and warmth.

Go, said my sister, she the patient one
with the patient who had once been
our mother, feather light in the foreign bed
in the family room where we had watched
Ed Sullivan and the Wonderful World of Disney,
in the center of the house that grew us.

I’ll be back soon, I whispered,
and my sister nodded.

And, as I had done countless times
in my young years, I fled across the street,
over the split rail fence, down the path to the lake
where we water skied every summer of our childhoods,
walking toward the water, so low now it resembled
the river it originally was.

Overhead the gulls glided, some settling
on the still, dark ribbon of water,
the shroud of solstice over us all.

Go, I whispered, looking for more light,
which did not come,
tilting my head skyward to receive
the lightest of drops,
which did.

•••

For Donna

In memory of our mother,
Darlene Haag
(July 6, 1931–Dec. 21, 2024)