His Big House
Jack’s friends lit candles.
Libby read Kindness.
I shook all the hands—
sustained embraces.
When the last guest was gone
she re-arranged the back room
imposing her order
over yours or her mother’s.
The furnace works long
to melt winter’s breath
drawn through a window
some summer cracked open.
As long as I have
this big house,
you have a place to stay
if you need one.
“Then I would hope you will keep
that big house
so I have a place to stay when I
need one.”
A silver frame cradles
a photo of Jack
climbing his tall sister
in Chenonceau’s garden.
The cold glass blurs
but I can’t polish it clean.
The tarnished loop and whorl
trace ridges like my own.
Dust collects under Jack’s bed.
I swapped his for yours
so others feel his support
and imprint his firm mattress.
I stopped resetting the clock
when the power comes on.
A green beacon beats
from your dark bedroom.
You can heal faster here,
not on your own,
and sound depths of your heart
worn brittle, riddled by grief.
My guests, you and I,
we understand much
too late. Please
don’t you
think that it’s time?
“What may I bring to make me feel
welcome?
Cook us his favorite
after school snack.
“I will pan fry Jiaozi or hard boil
an egg.”
Make sticky rice as well—
I share his sweet tooth.