She lives with my brother’s family.
My maternal mother peers at my book
on the butcher block counter,
Dorrianne Laux’s What We Carry,
she repeats the title.
I carry a lot
she tells me and I
know this. I just watched
her wind the portable
computer and cord
and carry them downstairs.
I just watched her carry her orange juice
across the kitchen to answer
the door, to let in my hip nephew,
returning home this late evening.
I just watched her carry piles of laundry.
She picks up a knee-length soccer sock
saying “This goes in their room,”
“This is Nate’s” my hip fifteen year old
skateboarding, video-gaming nephew,
and “That’s Nate’s.” She carries
Dad and Mario in her memory.