as the ice melts
it becomes easier
to drive, even in your
still-snowy part of town
but anyway, I do your shopping,
bring it over, cook
for you, because
I realize
had it been me, not you,
stuck in the house,
worried about falling,
unable to stand
well for long,
you would have done the same
for me. I bring you dinners,
make rice in the rice-cooker,
sit down with you and
play a boardgame that
I bought at the Goodwill.
It's aimed, in a rather
patronizing way, at the senior
citizen who would find it
challenging and amusing
to recall obscure events
from decades past
and tell little anecdotes
about people you've known,
things you're familiar with.
ten years ago, you would
have rolled your eyes at me
for buying you such a thing.
tonight, you sit with me,
forgetting again and again
the rules, but gamely trying
to bring to mind details of your life
when it's your turn.
(1957, Christmas, the #1 song.
You cannot remember, but when I tell you
the title, you laugh. "Pat Boone. That's why
I don't remember it. I hated him."
A glimpse -- there she is -- my mom.)
It is companionable, this hour,
but I miss the woman
who would have refused to play
such a boring game,
challenged me to Scrabble instead
and then trounced me at it.
When I leave, backing out of the driveway,
passing easily over slush and puddles,
I wish for a thawing
that could melt the ice
that has frozen your thoughts,
turned you into someone
you would not even know.
