In One Room

All of her life had come to stay in this one room

in her son-in-law’s house.

In sachet-fragrant dresser drawers

carefully lined with paper of all kinds,

each garment type was assigned its own special space

which did not vary, ever.

Satinate boxes organized hankies and hose.

All the hangers in her closet faced one way,

nothing hung from hooks.

Shoes faced the wall toe first in a row.

In the nightstand beside her bed

was the mentholated petroleum jelly

she used for colds, arthritis,

headaches and the bruises of old age.

Each morning she waked to see her painting,

hanging on the wall across from her.

It was her imitation of another’s work

that she had seen advertised in a throwaway magazine

and copied because it reminded her of home.

In the cedar chest, the memories were kept:

fur collars from winter cities,

letters from the Civil, First and Second World Wars,

old tintypes and photographs,

a braid of childhood hair, a wedding ring,

paintbrushes carefully preserved,

a Mother’s Day card drawn with odd-matched crayons,

a scrap of paper with a poem on it.

All of her life had come to stay in this one room,

but in her dreams she was far away

in the place of old friends

free from wishing and pain, free to play.

And so, in one sweet night dream, she simply chose to stay.