Silver Bowls

She whitewashed the air on Wednesday

as only she could. From here it felt

crisp and indigo, like the silver bowls

she used to have me polish on warm

afternoons. Outside it was that paradox

of bright and cold, we were one day away

from a full moon and some part of me

did not believe she was gone or maybe

did not believe that she could ever be gone.

That would just not be her style. Her style

was to love things fiercely, with the kind

of conviction that doesn’t just evaporate

on Tuesday nights in November. She

held on to things and people like they

might disappear at any moment, knowing

that they might. The moon was waxing

when she let go, there is never quite

enough. I could hear loss shivering

in her voice, often masking as cynicism,

but in the spaces between her words, there

was always warmth. I could feel it even

when I couldn’t hear it, and it made me

want to hold her with the intensity of

her own will to live, especially these last

few years, as though I could repay with my

touch all those afternoons she gave me a

million little jobs to keep my hands busy

and my mind in a daydream:

raking the lawn, setting the table,

weeding among the calla lilies and

camellias, washing the car, arranging

Pillsbury crescent rolls on a baking sheet

before dinner. With her,

there was always purpose,

and inside, a snack, the nightly news,

her fierce love, unspoken, except for when

she said to tell oblivious boys and professors

who assigned me too many papers to be nice.

Otherwise, I’ll have to go beat ’em up,

she would say with a sly smile.