In the End, Saint Timothy Gets Stoned

When Timothy comes to visit my parents,
he cooks. He cooks with olive oil
and mushrooms and spices from Trader Joe’s.

Like Dad, he’s on a low-salt diet for his health.
Mom is grateful for all Tim’s toil,
and Dad for meals with reduced cooking woes.

When Timothy wants a certain kind of pot,
he buys it, and they pay him back.
Once he bought a new set of dishes, thick and white.

I found the dishes set aside in the garage,
maybe because Mom’s bones lack
substance now, porous, powdery, and light,

and she can’t lift them as easily down from the shelf,
nor fit them in the dishwasher, nor put
them back, nor fit them in with the old set,

so thin, so worn out at the edges as to be relics,
almost, of a life lived daily. Now shut
away in their own home by circumstance, they get

lonely, and want to play cards with anyone
who comes, so we do, we do,
pulling chairs up to the table, repeating the rules

as needed, laying out the cards, six down, three up.
Nines are minus two, and kings are zero.
We aim for the lowest score, like wise old fools.

— Babs