i see her lean heavily on the metal bar handle,

i see two dozen other white-haired elderly ladies

in the same posture,

navigating the aisles in the grocery store;

she peruses the stacked can goods,

the miles of too many choices,

looking for the familiar brand, in the familiar package,

the one her mother taught her,

the recipe she cooked for decades for the children,

and, then, sometimes for the children’s children.

i’ve been in her home,

or homes just like it,

after the children

or the children’s children moved her

to a nursing home,

or after the final trip to the hospital.

always, a hoard of old greeting cards

sent by the children, or the children’s children,

or from friends, now long gone.

always, a clutch of white gloves or doilies,

now available to the public for a pittance.

someday, someone will be pawing through

the remnants of my life

when the estate sale is held.

if i have any warning,

i’ll burn my cards and gloves first

and dance around the bonfire