This home was her past, my limestone foundation,
Of lamp shades and mirrors and porcelain lamps.
This was the center, the hostel host haven.
The welcome victorious and degeneration.
I was the signer, check writer, clause reader,
When life’s arrhythmia took her to strangers.
One suitcase, her old coat, a quilt made in Scotland,
The wheelchair, the visits, the weekends of lists.
She was still with us and drifting and knowing
When all knew that this home had vanished in soul.
It left us with beds made and some dirty dishes,
The deed and dominion, but nothing more.
No one will witness the loss of the spirit,
The fading of vapors, of house that was home.
Lit fully, a shell, with echoes and corners,
Gone are safe places where all once was right.
Yet after embraces and funeral parting,
Beyond all the flatware, rattan, and divan,
Five hundred miles from all that was her life,
My loves grand and simple, at long last my home.
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