Fire-Proof Box
You need one, the daughter says, checking burners
on the stove, having caught from me the faith
in imminent calamity. What if the house burns down?
Turns everything to ash? So we send the husband
out to Walmart for what looks just like a little suitcase—
but now I’m not sure what to pack and what
to leave behind. Whether to fold or roll up doubts.
Whether to use those handy cubes to separate the facts
from fiction. Put in only things you can’t replace
the daughter interrupts. I point toward
the stained-glass window that turns the hallway
blue and purple. The smooth gray stones I stole
from Margate beach. And mother’s good wool coat,
of course. I wish I had her ashes, too, but she is buried
in a wooden box in another country, making conversation
quite impossible. Your will. Insurance policies,
the daughter urges, spilling drawers of the maple bureau.
She’s strong-willed, like me. I can count on her
to file the proper paperwork for any journey
across borders. What about the grandchildren? I ask,
not revealing yet my plan to slip them in somehow.
Previously published by Gyroscope Review, Issue 24-4 (The Fall Crone Power Issue 2024)