The Former Occupant

She died on a three-legged stool in her kitchen, her heart burst, and out flew all the skills of her nimble hands. Now she cooks the twilight mixing the dried fruits of yester-years. I feel her thoughts taking shape, see her sway to the music of Glen Miller, another memory she gave this space to. These words are partly hers, the flavors are mixed, the twilight shapes her tireless hands. I pay her rent as her interlocutor. I water the old ferns as if I were the curator of her life. We never did meet, but at night before I fall asleep she spits on a yellow duster and gently polishes my drowsy eyes until something shines in me, and I know her and she knows me.