You gave me a key, and I use it now 
to enter this silent house.
My mother lost her keys, or locked
them in her car. When the police came
they found her crying on the sidewalk 
near the grocery store. 
This house has three stories 
and an attic. There are windows 
everywhere, a palace of glass. 
Once her car door was opened, 
my mother drove home very slowly. 
She poured herself a vodka 
and phoned her friend. 
I find a carved wooden chest 
in the house, with antique scenes 
from domestic life - a woman 
spinning thread, a farm boy plowing 
a field behind a pair of oxen, 
two girls baking bread. 
The chest smells of cedar, 
but when I open it, there is nothing 
but a ripple of wind. My mother slept badly 
and in the morning she drank coffee 
and listened to the radio. 
Her keys jingled on a little hook above the door.
                        

I asked my father what heaven would be like.
No department stores, he said.
Small shops, where you could buy fresh fruit and cheese.
Quiet cafes where you sit for hours, reading in the shade.
You could write poems or work on your novel. 
There would be excellent cappuccino 
and small, delicious pastries you could eat all day 
without gaining weight. There would be libraries
with comfortable chairs and no banned books. 
In winter, clean snow and skiing with hot drinks 
steaming in the chalet. My cousin Hans would be there, 
healthy and strong as when we both were young 
and tramped the Alps, passing villages where travelers 
could rest and eat a meal before crossing the border into France.