There was a chair, and it was painted black
when I found it in your room after
the rain dark December night when
A delivery van met you in a crosswalk.
Your body crushed, your things strewn along the rain washed street
police cars, fire trucks and ambulance
glowing red in the dark.
Later your siblings go to your room.
Christmas lights drape over your one book shelf,
your chair next to that, your papers, letters and family pictures
laying still.
A kitchen table someone got for you,
and one chair for it, painted black, peeling in places.
Our brothers took photos of the crosswalk, and the lonely christmas lights by your chair,
the quiet reminders from your room.
The sisters efficient, gather up the left things, so our Dad won't pay
the extra rent.
this goes here, that goes there..
I take the black chair.
Seeing a chair painting project
with my little grand daughters
we could be free to be inspired... no money lost.
It became our canvas, you always loved a blank canvas..
I began with rose pink
you would have approved
The little girls asked to paint their hands
and put the prints on the seat.
You would have approved, knowing your love for you own daughter and grand daughter
deep love
little hand prints,
colors bright and childish.
time passes ...
For the first memorial day after your death
I remember you by painting a flower garden
under the child hand prints
with a patch of salmon gold sunset above
with tiny hearts strewn in paths
blown by a soft and gracious breeze.
And maybe you are free now, carried in that warm breeze,
no worries, no crazy thoughts dogging you,
released into the wild cosmos
from which you came-
and I can say to you that I care by making art
how I couldn't say when you were here.
