My Pittsburgh son haunts thrift shops, collects old rosaries, hangs them on nails down cellar, near his bathroom door.
Buried with their best crystal rosaries, crocheted among their fingers, all those old ladies trouble me when I consider how their every-day rosaries were taken by their daughters to be entombed in gold, pasteboard boxes,
until years later when the daughters were readying for their move to Florida (for the sake of the mover’s bill) lightened their load by donating the darker contents of their dresser drawers to Goodwill.
Up north, my wife, Felice, slipped away with emphysema, and my work cruised on without me—accounts balanced, mortgages afloat. My sleep done down here in Florida, I stand looking out a darkened window no one’s looking in. The morning paper never comes too soon with its rites of scandal and opinion. I finger my few stocks’ shifting fractions, consult the weather map’s puzzle,
while the percolator gurgles and sighs. I wait for the light, wait for that moment when Felice appears, pouring my cream, easing my bitterness by asking, “Where will you go today, and who will you carry?”