wer lines. Or hung, slung-armed, round the fridge.
It was always here to take from us.
But now, so much to give.
* * *
—
There were quiet talks, there had to be.
We sat kitchen-side with our dad.
He said there were still a few days.
The doctor explained that yesterday, and also the morning before that.
Those days-before were endless.
We should have already had a stopwatch back then, and chalk to write the bets with; but Penny would just keep living. No one would win the winnings.
We all looked down at the table.
Did we ever have matching shakers?
* * *
—
And yes, I wonder about our father, and what it was like—to send us each morning on our way—for it was one of her dying wishes, that we all get up and leave. We all go out and live.
Each morning we kissed her cheek.
She’d kept it seemingly only for this.
“Go, sweet boy—get out there.”
That wasn’t Penelope’s voice.
* * *
—
It also wasn’t her face—that turning thing that cried.
That yellow pair of eyes.
She would never see us grow up.
Just cry and silently cry.
She’d never see my brothers finish high school, and other absurdist milestones; she’d never see us struggling and suffering, the first time we put on a tie. She wouldn’t be here to quiz first girlfriends. Had this girl ever heard of Chopin? Did she know of the great Achilles? All these silly things, all laden with beautiful meaning. She had strength now only to fictionalize, to make up our lives before us:
We were blank and empty iliads.
We were odysseys there for the taking.
She’d float in and out on the images.