Living Spaces

She died in the kitchen perched on a three-legged stool. Her heart flew away along with all the skills of her hands. Now between the light and the dark she cooks the dried fruits of yester-years. Often, her thoughts take shape, oft also is the distant music of Glen Miller overheard as it warms radio valves in a long defunct wooden case. I used to water the tall green ferns that survived her I became her curator and sometimes in my self-talking mind my words became hers, while we listened together to the ghostly echoes of our shared living-space.