tony howarth
Erna 100 Once, casement
windows, a crossbreeze, sunporch, farmhouse kitchen, archway into the dining
room, basement full of Allan’s tools Now, the
wrap-around thermal windows are tightly sealed. Sunlight and
rain streak the windows. The view outside, a parking lot What she could do helps her laugh at what she no longer can She nursed a garden
crowded with zinnias, in spring the apple blossoms, mock orange, butterflies
floating on waves of fragrance A tropical vine
smothers the wall in the corner. She scrawls the watering
schedule in crayon on the refrigerator calendar All she hears – you have to eat to stay alive Four children, her
kitchen a daily bedlam – always a bird roasting in the oven –
recipes collected from everywhere – spanakopita, calde verde, peach cobbler Her daughters often
visit to rustle up lunch. No appetite – just a half-glass of
juice. Cheese and crackers in bed after midnight Hip replacement, broken wrist congestive heart failure Allan played the
flute, sat with duets gathered round the piano, she made music too, singing in
constant motion, while cooking, while filing Allan’s lawyer papers
The gleaming baby grand stands in stillness. She wonders why
she
keeps it Stumbling to the bathroom clinging to a stranger’s elbow shatters past and present Up and down the
stairs, two flights up, one flight down, wander round the garden at twilight,
hop in the car on impulse, travel anywhere, fresh corn, Cape Cod A walker that
converts into a perch. Bent-over progress measured in feet
per hour. The lost breath, the tubing in the nose Tells the hospice nurse at her bed-side this is my last
day dozes off but then, wakes up struggles to remember am I gone yet