last grey cemetery day, last house door closing. asked “come with me if you want; ” tote bag big enough to slip inside, room set aside in suitcase.

at night, up late, looking over my shoulder as I try to write. words come hard now mostly stable. yet, sometimes, fingers fly over keyboard, writing idea not there before, never planned or prewritten. nudged by father, instead of turning lights on. things go missing, to be found in strange places, or not at all. mother at work again, making mischief, making difficulties.

feel them strongest in the chaos of attic. their new home among the detritus of our lives. bags of clothes, boxes of books and electronics, rolled up carpets, dismantled bicycles, lost dreams and hopes, and my parents.

sometimes I wonder was it fair, to have them come so far away. father from friends made since ’91. mother from her best friend, just up the hill a ways. away from open space of graveyard, from place they knew so well. to confinement in an attic in a foreign country, foreign space.

resolved, I will ask if they want to go home. if so, I will bring them there, release them from the tote bag. tidy up the tombstone, replace the trees on either side if necessary. and know where to find them always.