“Angel Wing,” I said

my name.

They buzzed me into the

hallway with light yellow walls.

I didn’t need an I.D.

 

We always visited at Thanksgiving

surrounded by various hues

of orange, black, and dandelion.

 

Mabel in her Mad Hatter blue

linen shirt followed you to the table

and hovered, talking to herself.

 

Once,

you followed us

back down the light-yellow hall,

clung to the door jambs

begging to leave with us,

banging on the door

after they pried away your fingers.

 

This time,

white snow blanketed the patio

where we would sit the last time.

The tree leaves were green

that day, lush

with harmonious vigor.

You asked,

 

“Where’s Bob?

He should be back

from the garden by now.

He knows he needs to visit

when family is here.”

 

You asked where I lived, again,

even though you knew I had just answered.

 

“Where is Bob?

He will be so unhappy

that he missed his family visiting.”

 

Your great-grandsons were so handsome,

and you commented, again, on my naturally curly hair.

 

“That Bob makes me so mad

when he won’t come in

from that garden

and visit his family.”

 

I was supposed to tell he was buried

six years ago, and you

were at the funeral,

but I didn’t have the heart.

 

This time, though,

you sat in your colors

of truth and wisdom

on the edge of heaven.