Posthumously: a poem

 

 

Posthumously
 

 Three months
after Mom’s death,
we five siblings went through
box after box of greeting cards,
letters,

 

diaries,
journals, brittle
clippings of her mother’s
that had been bequeathed to Mom as
eldest.

 

Weekends
are for yard sales,
so we planned one when five
of us seven children could be
present.

 

Pie pans,
cookbooks, blankets,
mismatched silverware, odd
purses, sweaters, glassware, aprons
and more,

found new
homes in exchange
for one dollar, or two.
Neighbors dropped by for a look-see,
chatted,

picked up
tiny trinkets
so they would have something
of “dear Ms. Anna Pearl’s” that they
could keep.

Packing
unsold clothing,
a daughter found something
in her mom’s black velvet jacket:
dried bread,

too large
at the time for
her to swallow during
Holy Communion many months
ago.

[PL - written in July of 2006]