Child in a Red Hat by Mary Cassatt
End-of-the-day snowflakes shimmer
past my kitchen window, the softness
of each one a tiny white lie
building a quilt over autumn’s carcass.
Bare trees slice the sky into jagged
pieces of beyond and the frozen
milkweed is an open-mouthed
exhalation of seeds on silk.
This house is colder, empty
of children. The dog ages
faster than I do. Ruby is the grande dame
of Irish terriers, eyes rheumy, bones
sharp beneath her fur. She waits
near the door until my husband
walks through, snow on his shoulders.
I long for my kids at this time of day,
miss how they hurtled through the door
with friends behind them, tossed backpacks
onto the floor, spilled noise everywhere.
Ruby would bark, wag her whole body,
pull her lips into a canine smile.
Now she limps to greet my husband, her stance
hopeful but I’m not sure why. She wheezes,
follows him upstairs, gets between us
as we hug.
We discuss dinner glad to be in for the night.
When did we slide into these bodies
whose motion is reduced to such
a small orbit? I yearn for friends
to fill empty dining chairs,
a lit fireplace, something to warm this skeletal family.
I put my hand on Ruby's head,
feel how prominent her skull
has become. I mourn how time speeds up,
how my body settles
beneath shimmering memories.
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