While You Were Out

I play hide-and-seek with my two-year-old
but something remains stuck
in the back of my throat.

He hasn’t taken off
the snowman applique sweater in days.

Mother, were you thinking
of the next design
when the truck driver came speeding toward you
and sent your car whirling—
his radio blasting,
a bottle of cheap vodka beside him.

They found your knitting needles
and a pattern book in the back seat:
purl stitch, seed stitch, drop stitch—
after the fourth,
drop the fifth, take it up in the next row.

Sometimes I wish I could leave you
a “while you were out” note.
There is so much to tell;
it stays lodged
in the back of my throat.

I pour tea for myself;
I turn around
and half of it is gone.

Were you here?

Your grandson pretends
to go back in time
in his cardboard time machine
to put seat belts
in your car.

He loves turning the key
to open the mailbox.

I wish for the blue aerograms
written in tiny script
you sent every fortnight.

I keep them all
in a folder from Staples
beside the silver plate
with dried-up marigolds,
the blackened diya
with its charred wick,

and the brass idols
that wait for a bath
and fresh clothes.