The goldfinches arrived early. My ambition is to stroll in a superbloom, the poppies an abundance outshining my upcycled flour-sack dress. Do you love the heartwood’s harmonics? My canny eye & buttons of bone? One of us said solastalgia; the other—Please, no spiritual advice. You have a crowbar, the standing owl of Athena, a needle to patch up my going-out blouse. When did we live in secluded hills, cold water diving to shake off complacency?
In the shadow of a cedar tree that gave you / sleep, one summer, one summer when all responsibilities / seemed to die (or so you dreamed)—water lilies / in a nearby pond, arms languishing at your side. . . .
Connell appeared in the bathroom doorway, his pale, skinny chest bare, picking his nose. Below his neck, a crescent like a reddish, smiling moon. Connell wasn’t old enough for the mark to embarrass him. Jasper wouldn’t tell him, not now. Today, Jasper was in charge. And they couldn’t stay home with no mother. Her absence was in every room.
A daughter visits her parents in Southern California in the wake of her father’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis, navigating the difficult terrain of respecting their decisions while ensuring he has good health care.
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