Eventually, I grab the back-door key
from the cup-holder, slip a folded list
into my pocket. Inside, I dig through closets

to find the lincoln logs, the cardinal statue,
the clock shaped like an elephant, a kettle—

but the whole time I half expect to hear her:
the careful shuffle of her slow, flat feet;
her walker’s unpredictable clap; her voice

trembling with evangelical vibrato.
Beside the bed, I find a King James Bible,

her careful marginalia penciled in:
Glory! Glory! Amen! I set it down.
I shouldn’t want it just because it’s hers.

This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 28 Number 7, on page 27
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