Mother was the practical voice 
among the ruins. 
"She's been dead a week. 
We have to clean out the fridge. 
Bring rubber gloves ... 
God knows what we'll find." 
I wasn't amused. But I went, 
as if could guard your memory 
from trite complaints 
that surface to release such grief. 
One foot in the present mess; 
the other in a relished past. 

The milk was sour. 
On cardboard spouts, 
a touch of Revlon's Devil Red 
that said your lips 
refused to bother with a glass. 
Cheesecake turned a swampish green. 
Potatoes had multiple eyes. 
While mine lived blind 
to your colorful flaws. 
Six apples left I hadn't peeled. 
A jar of jam a decade old -- 
under its lid a gray mold scar 
of suffering on top of seeds. 
White tuna for your Persian cat. 
The can had whiskers in its bowl. 

All our midnight meetings there 
came back to me -- a rush 
of pennies falling from a latch-less purse 
turned upside-down in effigy. 
The day we licked pink frosting 
off your birthday cake, 
lunged at the sugar and cream, 
left shiny forks inside the drawer. 
I wasn't prepared for blizzard chills 
so stinging and so permanent 
they tore the month of August out 
from pages of the calendar.