Poem

One of my parents’ dish towels

hangs on the handle of our stove.

It is aqua-blue, covered with red

and yellow poppies. How many of

their dishes this towel must have

buffed, plus silverware, glasses,

cookpots and pans. For decades

Mom washed them and Dad did

the drying. But after he died, she

stood alone at their sink, letting

the water grow cold — soap suds

like glaciers slipping into the sea.

Six months a widow and she, too,

was gone, leaving a lone bowl in

the drainer, a single spoon, a fresh

dish towel draped just so on a ring.

Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of eight collections of award-winning poetry, including The Light That Follows Us Home.