Steam and flame are the same
to Mother now. The humidifier
next to her bed becomes a candle .
She asks that I fill it with water.

When she calls the family dog
she leaves the letter y
off her name Harmony.
Can she remember how difficult it was
for everyone to get along?

I have tried not to mention accidents
and deaths she doesn't remember,
tried not to correct her when she thinks
I am an aunt she loved,
one gone before my birth.

I bring bottles of spring water:
perhaps she'll remember to drink.

I bring her lacey-top nylon stockings,
charcoal, nude, coal,
the colors she prefers.

On May Day her gift, tiny but gold,
the Blessed Mother medal --
it's her day, too -- on a short silk ribbon
that's heavenly blue.

She remembers the gift of other years,
no longer left on the doorstep
with the morning paper and a row
of empty milk bottles, a note rolled up in one:

she remembers her happiness, finding it --
-- I wish it could be arranged --
in the straw basket of May flowers,