For Diane
Mom said
that she’d forgiven
and reconciled
with Dad.
That he was building
them a Craftsman house,
its location still a secret.
That she’d asked
for a bedroom of pale
greens, walls like willow trees
in fog, a baby’s breath
pattern in fabrics.
For a kitchen in homey
yellows of butter or honey.
We shared
a thermos of coffee.
Her knotted fingers hugged
the plastic cup like balled-up roots.
I said
When the work is done,
you should go.
She named
my aunts and uncles who’d visit.
Her eyes strayed
from mine,
and focused on
the bone-white wall
behind her IV drip.
Chilly.