Wrapping my mother’s Candlewick
In tissue paper, I touch the smooth contours
Of the glass, tracing the curves, closing damp eyes,
Searching for rough edges that have
Suddenly disappeared
The one thing I never thought I’d miss
Envelops me

On Thanksgiving Day, she set the table,
Carefully, with long slender fingers, the hands of
A piano player, singing love songs to my father
Much too marvelous for words,
In my lover’s dream
As if she was still sitting in her chair
At the end of life
Whispering to me

It’s all rough edges, my son
And that’s why we celebrate