3:00 p.m. - 2010-11-11
Her Maple Chair
Her after image rests indelibly, there in her heavy maple chair. I can see her working crosswords, cozy in that half-robe, pink as a crayon. So many different ghosts loom in this Early American kitchen. Sometimes her hair is stiff as cotton candy and smells of Style hairspray. Sometimes it is soft as a baby's, framing her sweet face with ashen flax. She is concentrating. Pulling obsure words out of thin air, meticulously fitting them into the day's mandala. She is drinking her third cup of coffee. Or tea, depending upon her life's season. You can be sure it is Sunday when she remarks with surprise about the size of the L.A. Times. Each week she manages to freshly deliver this timeworn message. I nod in boredom and frustration, knowing even then that someday I will long to hear what will seem a gem of insight in her absence. I know I will yearn for the echo of her voice. I know I will lean towards Paradise, straining to hear it.
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