Evening Rites

It’s 5 minutes ’til 11 and I remember

Her room,
thick plaster walls, cool and placid, their bed
resting on gold linoleum by a window
edged in November, deep windowsill still holding
his things, his watch, a few letters.

It had been his side before he died.

On her side
there’s a table, frayed and slender, hairpins
lying on a lace doily, luminous ribs
of a gentle life, I am brushing her fine hair,
thin wine falling silver in low light. 

It was the only time I ever saw it down.

We don’t talk much
here, in this light my spring blood stills,
my hands smoothing lotion
onto her shoulders so small, bones
like bird wings, skin paper thin.

How had they carried so much?

She lets me wind her clock,
a cream and gold baby Ben, my small fingers
winding up the day
with a tiny metal key that she told me,
just once, must never be wound too tightly.

She always asked if I set the alarm. 6 AM every time.

Today I wonder
if she really needed my help, or if she
just knew I longed to be needed, to be trusted
with night, with time, with a clock that always stops
at 5 minutes ’til 11 every time.

It was the time they told me she died.

-s. rochelle