She still hauls out the decorations
For each holiday, then soon enough
Has to haul them right back in.
Decoding this took but a little while.
Ever since my father died and living
All alone, she needs occasions to center
Her attention on, each with its reasons
And recollections. There are old traditions,
Rites for time’s ongoing transit, a bit of recreation,
And surely comfort from the yearly iterations.
It must seem so nice that, despite us children grown
Halloween will come along again,
And Easter, as they always do,
And decorations seem to smooth her way,
Splitting time into discreet and certain instants,
That will ceaselessly recur.
I have this note in shaky cursive
That interrupts recursion
With linear trains of feeling.
“A Codicil to my Will” it starts,
And then the grants to each the grandkids
Contained within. This jotting must have taken
But a moment to record, just
Some random break between the decorations
