Say your aunt died yesterday, but you were never
close. Say your mother (the older sister) calls,
a survivor yet again at 90, thinking she's calling
her brother. Blind, she's happy to talk to you instead.
Happy a loose, slippery word. She's too old and far
away for the funeral in Hawaii. In Detroit,
she sits in her chair by her window, feeling
the sun, she says (to me in Pittsburgh). I invite you
to join her there. Warn her before approaching.
Don't sneak up on her like death, taking her sister
without ceremony or proper goodbyes. She hangs
up on me, also by accident, one on her shrinking list
of working numbers. She'll eventually call her brother
to share the sad news, as planned. You, you can be her
last living friend, returning after all these years.
Just don't kiss her on the forehead—she hates that.
