I remember twilight in Springhill
looking at the red library, baseball diamond
Hunter's Lake--
at my aunt's house feeling Florida's sticky humidity
eating almond press cookies
sipping iced water

My grandparent's house was clean. Tea, toast,
pasta fagioli
My grandfather sang Sinatra, read me Ecclesiastes
My grandmother and I shopped for angel hair pasta
and organdy dresses
then returned home to dust my cat music box

My mother yelled at my brother and me--
playing football and wrestling

I walk the back road to my aunt's house
to occupy my abandoned swingset after dark
I sing the parts of hymns
I still remember.

St. Theresa's Catholic Church, Hwy. 19.
with its stained glass windows
and small cups of holy water upon entry
Father Francis was thankfully deaf--
3 Hail Marys no matter what my sins

My grandfather in his final year not speaking--
molding to his bed
his dark skin and white hair
stark on a floral pillow case
great blue green veins raised
from his thick skinned body

My grandmother's cancer-emaciated torso
asymmetrical
in a green dress
in a casket
in a vault
in death
and I asked why she had on orange lipstick,
then went to sit on my aunt's lap

My mother's new hone with doors
impersonal soap dishes, sterile kitchen,
contoured carpet

Grace Memorial Gardens
where my grandparents are
in boxes
in drawers
filed away like memories
in gray marble coldness

My father's home's solitude, peace,
whole milk, and radiators.