I accompany the peddler
to the widow’s house
hoping to get a glimpse
of my mother.

on the way
we share coffee
from a thermos.

his car rattles to a stop
in the small drive
like a dog     I remember
then don’t.

in places like this
nowhere     lacks
a middle.

before we get out of the car
he tells me
not to worry
he was born to sell
grief insurance.

at the door
I begin to think
this is the life
then it opens

and there she is...

as far as she knows
she didn’t hear us
knock.