Crochet

"Crochet" by Jan Mordenski

Even after darkness closed her eyes
my mother could crochet.
Her hands would walk the rows of wool
turning, bending, to a woolen music.

The dye lots were registered in memory:
appleskin, chocolate, porcelain pan,
the stitches remembered like faded rhymes:
pineapple, sunflower, window pane, shell.

Tied to our lives those past years
by merely a soft colored yarn,
she’d sit for hours, her dark lips
moving as if reciting prayers,
coaching the sighted hands.

The One Certain Thing

The dashboard countdown on my computer no longer reads "__ days until graduation" but "__ days since graduation." The weather this morning woke me up. Heavy rain, booming thunder, and grey skies. I don't feel sad or anything yet. My notorious to do list still exists thanks to the impending move to Oregon. But I am anxious because I don't know how I will feel when I'm a bit settled and the people that have created such a supportive, safe space for me will no longer be within arms reach. So it seemed appropriate that the weather wasn't wonderful.

One of my best friends left a couple hours ago. I drove behind her car on my way back to my dorm and watched the silhouette of her hand waving as I turned and the physical distance between us grew greater by the second. Then it was off to drop off a gift, pick up an air filter, and continue packing. But at some point I know I'll look at the ocean and realize that although we're both looking at oceans, mine is the Pacific and hers the Atlantic. And then the tears will come because I know she'll be thinking the same thing on the same night. But soon I'll stop, and so will she, consoled by the fact that we're no matter the miles, we're still together.

As I go through my room and decide what things go in which box, I know I'm going to find things that speak to me, like the things in this poem. Not that I consider this a death or even a loss, it's just change. But there will always be things that testify to a different time or place. And there is much comfort in that.

"The One Certain Thing" by Peter Cooley

A day will come I’ll watch you reading this.
I’ll look up from these words I’m writing now—
this line I’m standing on, I’ll be right here,
alive again. I’ll breathe on you this breath.
Touch this word now, that one. Warm, isn’t it?

You are the person come to clean my room;
you are whichever of my three children
opens the drawer here where this poem will go
in a few minutes when I’ve had my say.

These are the words from immortality.
No one stands between us now except Death:
I enter it entirely writing this.
I have to tell you I am not alone.
Watching you read, Eternity’s with me.
We like to watch you read. Read us again.