In a bedroom of old things – a cedar chest that was my aunt’s, 
a yellow star quilt her mother pieced with perfect bird-
like stitches, a little box needlepointed (winter cardinals 
in bright red) by your sister back when she still could, 
a blue patchwork from another sister, a black walnut dresser
with three long drawers and polished brass bail-pull handles 
that my father rubbed to an eternal glow, sheer white curtains 
like my mother’s mother hung in a room with tall windows – 

I wake into a pond of slow receding shadows
and starts of sunlight falling on my face, your scent
in the sheet, warm and still, clutched in my hand.
Both of us now old ourselves, nobody will see
these treasures after us. I hold the sheet against
my cheek, breathe the sweetness, long and deep.