I check
the mail,
see an envelope
from my sister,
and know it's the end.
I wait
to open it,
drive to the beach,
get settled,
then slit it open.
A check
with my mom's name
in the corner:
Fleurette G. Ryan
and her last
address: Sterling
Assisted Living.
She didn't die there;
that was hospice.
Still....
I fold
the check
and slip it back
in the envelope.
Once all four
are cashed,
Nancy will close
the account.
End
of an era.
End of playing
cards and sipping
wine in the late
afternoon
sun.
End of watching
her enjoying
lobster, melted
butter shining
on her chin.
End of sweet
conversations
while driving
to the cemetery
to place
flowers
on my dad's grave.
End of trips
to Foxwoods.
End of winning.
It's warm
at the beach
but goosebumps
spring up
on my arms.
