Rekindling Spirits

Our mother moved to Woodward
blocks away from the D.I.A.
where her father—junked on jazz,
hallucinating blues—
would leave her to wander.
My brother & I supported
her in the transition:
ceilings high, her eyes the sheen
of the hardwood floors, her window
overlooking the streets
sparkling with amber glass.
We were envisioning the layout
bothered by a pillar near the door
that blocked the flow—
a space we’d learn to navigate.
But we agreed: the rest
bewitched us. We hauled
her silverware in trash bags,
her clothes & furniture,
& all of Grandpa Joe’s paintings
wrapping our arms around oak
frames—his bare bones—
those monochromatic nudes.
Her library induced a renaissance
in our memory: the books
she cradled in our hands, her voice
guiding us into the mist of sleep;
those myths recited by
the coiling flame of a chimenea
coated in ash & the smell
of pine. We finished
in seven hours, her life cluttered
but manageable. Pulling gin
& tonic from the freezer we toasted
to the skyline, eye level, dazzling.