I love magical moments when the stars
seem to be aligned, and I help where I can
to get the glitter of some pixie dust on us
to stay awhile—like our accountant
who turned ninety at the Ides of April,
his calling for a lifetime. Like a brother,
he was fond of my mother, and you think
white Phalaenopsis, her favorite orchid
for his birthday, like the one she gave you
when your father died to welcome us home
after Elko, years after. His daughters
are flying, coming-in for the celebration.
Easy as a call to her florist, Mary Frances.
She tells me how she misses seeing my mother,
a fine lady. I tell her how we see her often,
how she visits us. Come again? and then
she understands—tells how it took a whole year
before she was able to let her mother in.
for Ed
drycrikjournal 