Dropping clean clothes from the dryer onto the bed,
recalling how she had often held them close
as if to save some sacred store of warmth,
I am softly surprised by memory today.
The warmth, like life itself,
proves Scripture true:
a mist appears a little time,
then vanishes as morning dew.

We padded the smooth vinyl chair with a pillow.
Still, the wheels rolling over cracked sidewalks
(carefully avoided as kids, so as not to break
our mother's back)
now countered hoped-for benefit or comfort.
Jarring impact traveled up the steel frame,
found quick route mapped to weakness,
directed by some skilled marksman
to reach the target with precision,
proving to be the sharper force
than all our pillow gentleness
on this, her almost final
April ride.