He's your boy, and my daughter seems to

care for him, as much as one 21 year old cares

for another, both slack and profound,

all at once, like a bungee cord wrapped tightly

around the body. After the jump from the bridge,

the limp cord appears, ready to pull and dangle.

My house is not an easy place to visit lately, with

an old senile dog who guards shadows and his

hallucinations, making a full night’s sleep a

has-been dream.  (Your boy didn’t complain.) Not

peaceful, I wander about at night, too, and sit

on the back porch or in the dark living room.

The dog's yelps provide good cover for such

early morning  restiveness. 

He told me about your long lost pets, a neighborhood

feud, and funny stories of your family vacations. I

learned things I bet you wouldn’t want me to know

just yet, if ever. (It’s okay. I understood what you

meant when you once told his teenage brother

you could “happily leave him at Disney Land.”)

On Friday afternoon a young man I didn’t know

died in a freak car accident up the street from me.

Your son held the water-filled vase in my front

yard as I cut stems of purple coneflowers, black-eyed

Susans, and white and purple Bee Balm.

He was the one to place the vase there against

the fence where the young man crashed and instantly

died two days before. Our flowers joined another

bouquet to sit in reverence while the rain washed

away the stains in the flattened grass.

One day in to his visit, I asked him to help

me. “Please,” I said. “I need to trim that shrub,

the one that thinks it’s a tree. Will you help?” 

I ignored my daughter’s rolling eyes and smiled

when he leaped up. He sliced the too high

branches, the ones I struggle with every year. When

he was done, my daughter said, “Mom, thanks

for asking him. He likes to help out.”  I know,

dear girl, I know. (His parents raised him that way.)