THE DAY
The day his doctor told my father he shouldn't drive anymore
there were suddenly so many errands to run.
I ran into the mailbox,
and delivered his newspaper late.
There were so many errands to run
but snow piled deep in the driveway.
and the snowplow was late.
The mail never came.
The snow piled high against the walls.
My mother argued with her caregiver
and then read the same letter over and over.
The turkeys ran wild in the yard.
My mother argued with her caregiver
because she said she didn't need a caregiver
Later, they watched the turkeys run wild,
and the starlings battle at the bird feeder.
My mother said she didn't need her walker.
My father, mystified by the remote, missed his favorite show.
The bird feeder became a TV.
My mother almost fell down.
My father was mystified
that he couldn't drive anymore.
I fell asleep
and drove my car into a ditch.
WAITING ROOM
The silence is a forest of bare trees.
A grey sky hovers near the ceiling.
Through the glass,
snow covers the car
the deck
the hillside.
Or is that just a memory?
There is no child to play in it,
only photographs —
a couple skiing
the hunt for a Christmas tree
six-foot drifts from a blizzard.
There are so many photographs,
photo albums dominate the bookshelves,
filled with people I no longer recognize.
The ghosts of those still present sit with me.
We wait for the bodies to arrive.
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