At odd moments she will think of me coming up from the basement
and say to herself “I didn’t even know he was in the house,”
while she boards her plane.

She will suddenly want to tell me about something
but remembering that she can’t, she will picture me on the old couch.
“Sheesh, he’s fallen asleep again.”

Staring at the depressing dish stacks, while on hold to her grandchildren,
she will sigh so sadly and ironically I would want to let her off the hook
if I only could.

She will practice one long phrase of music repeatedly all afternoon
not caring a bit for my peace of mind,
and I’ll be like, whatever.

Tonight I stared at her reading her book at the dinner table,
turning pages, moving into the future as I watched.

Accelerating.  Burning through time
in a way I no longer dare to.

Go ahead, I thought.  I am a repeating pattern.
All the houses you move into will be papered with me.

I will be on hand when other people help you.
I will be there when you take care of yourself.