Your white enamel dishpan was
already marred when I stole it from
the summer house, used by
hands less expert than yours or
more hurried. Years on, its bottom
is grayed by a craquelure of tiny
scratches. Imagine a dance of
gnarled fingers swiping plates
clean, tumbling silverware, and
scrubbing—day after day, week
after week—the cast iron skillet.
Caught in a multiple exposure of
moving film. And then look hard at
the result. Not a solid gray but
a subtle tangle that makes me
think of reindeer moss and of
all the moments I worked beside
you in that kitchen, gladly or
sulkily. The delicate snarls and
even after death the failures of
daughterhood. The quiet joys.
Tuesday, looking out the window,
I saw the backyard oak lit up
silver against heavy clouds, sudden
as a white squall on the bay. I
jammed my feet into shoes and ran
out the back door too late. Magic
had already yielded to the more
common loveliness of sun-gilt bark,
which you especially loved, and
why in that lost moment had I thought
to catch you a competing silver
beauty and send it by a phone
invented after we lost you?
