Mum's Old Friends
In the middle of of their home,
there is an airwell.
High above, the rain awning
folds back
to welcome a beacon of light.
Most homes are designed to
keep out —
mosquitoes, lizards,
burglars, heat.
Come in, come in, Uncle George says.
To the open windows,
sliding doors
of his father’s old house.
Scuffed maroon couches,
weathered backyard table,
love-seat swing, fabric fading in the sun.
Auntie Kay is adopted.
She keeps people out.
They haven’t been to my mother’s
weekly afternoon teas for a year.
He had Stage 4 lymphoma.
She didn’t tell anyone.
Now, she hands me
fluffy house slippers to wear,
points out old family photos.
After revolving around the house,
we do the door tango.
Stay, stay —
sit for a while longer.
No we couldn’t possibly…
Wind is winding through the house.
Their windchime sways,
notes deep and rich.
How beautiful, my mother says.
Let me buy one for you.
He is already looking it up online.