Years of cooking, baking, polishing and pulling out every last piece of good china
boil down to this —
lukewarm turkey and a slice of pie
while we, in masks, unfoil her plate and recount the day she missed.
Instead of a dining room spiffed for the season —
fruits, nuts and gourds nestled around a swan decoy ensconced in bittersweet
the kitchen table is centered by the ephemera of aging —
Medicare statements, reams of catalogs, and the occasional note from a friend or grandchild,
envelope sliced neatly across the top.
A cane is ready at hand.
But there’s nary a complaint.
Like the bed-ridden boy in “My Big Ball of String,” my mother-in-law has got this Covid thing figured out.
She tends her acres from a plush recliner, and the tasks are comfortingly rote.
Take down the awnings, will you, Peter? Liz, thanks again for the groceries. David’s almost finished shingling the shed.
Her plate scraped and washed, the TV goes back on.
I’ve already watched two movies today.
She points to a mound of Christmas packages, tied with last year’s ribbon.
Bearing away her gifts, we smile through a porch window.
The cold night is clear.
Ascending geese honk loudly over the river. As they always do.