Content note Mentions grief and death of a parent.
One pair of reading glasses, folded on the newspaper,
still open to the crossword, four clues unsolved.
Seventeen steel containers, none with matching lids,
each one a small argument she won with the kitchen.
Two hundred and six rupees in a tea tin,
labelled, in her hand, for emergencies.
I am trying to decide if this counts.
One cardigan on the back of her chair
that remembers the exact angle of her shoulders.
Three letters I wrote from college and never thought she kept.
She corrected my spelling in pencil.
A plant on the windowsill, thirsty, alive,
waiting for the one person who knew how much water.
Her slippers by the door, pointing outward,
as if she had only stepped out for milk.
One voice message on my phone, eleven seconds long:
Call me when you’re free, nothing urgent.
I was not free. It was not urgent.
I have listened to it ninety times.
What I cannot find, in any drawer or cupboard:
the sound of her calling my name from the kitchen,
the exact weight of her hand on my hair,
the version of me that existed only when she was looking.
I water the plant. I leave the slippers where they are.
I fill in one clue of the crossword, in pencil,
so she can correct it.
