His Grecian Lady
After the long flight, we turn onto Dad’s street. Dim streetlights illuminate miles of concrete in the senior neighborhood. Each house, amongst thousands, looks the same — pale white flecks of mica sparkling in stucco. Searching for his home in the dark, our best clue, his garden statue, a woman in a toga, urn balanced on one shoulder. And the white plastic chair by the door for when Dad gets winded. His hide-a-key turns the lock, the house silent with a musty smell of disuse. I collide with his walker in the hall. One sole nightlight gleams from his bedroom. The bed still unmade, just as he left it. I imagine him, unable to move one side of his body, gesturing with his one good arm for the ambulance driver to turn off his air conditioner.
estate sale
ospreys winging over
lush Floridia yards
