To Micaela
By
Evan Hackett
Nancy keeps asking
If I want
A picture of you
On your deathbed,
Dressed in your pink
Sweat suit.
I prefer my memory
Of you
In your Lazyboy
Watching the Lakers:
With Chick announcing,
The “jello is jigglin’."
If I try, I can still
Hear a faint
“Go Lakers” dangling
In the air.
I moved your swing
To the patio
By the pool.
Sometimes, at night,
I go and sit and swing
And hope for memories
To remind me of you.
We chat like
We used to, and
I try to catch you up
On the grand kids:
Christina is an
Architect in the city;
Jed is in college
On the East Coast.
We seldom talk.
I do not
Know why.
Melanie, who
Bears your name,
Is a fighter like you,
But instead of R.A.,
She battles A.L.L.
She would like
Rocking with you
In the Lazyboy
Or
Swinging with you
On the porch.
A magical smile
And touch
Between generations.
What is this space
Between you and me?
I still swing in hopes
Of feeling you
Sitting next to me,
But am distracted by the bats,
Who skim the pool
In hopes of
A few mosquitoes.
After swimming laps,
I head in
To my recliner
And cheer on
The Dodgers, but Vin’s voice
Is too but a memory.
I wonder if
My youngest, Micaela,
Will understand
What it means
To be
The keeper
Of family memories.
