Gail Peck
Elegy

Her hands were smaller than I remembered. She lay with her scalp showing through, in a dress

she wouldn't have chosen. Diabetes. Bad heart. Impractical. She'd cooked for everyone and eaten

freely with them, and they all showed up at the church. For once I was comfortable, because the

service was good, almost happy, the Pentecostals knew where she was. During a visit home

Mom had said, "Charlotte's too short for that long wig, and she looked better without those false

teeth." I guess it's Charlotte's feet I picture most, dangling from the sofa where she sat

surrounded by whatnots: hundreds of them, maybe thousands — if one duck was good, ten

following behind were better. Deeply in debt, the phone cut off, she was dreaming of a new

kitchen floor, what possible way to get one — the kitchen weighted with tupperware, bundt pans,

the iron skillet she inherited. If I'd known I'd never have another cup of coffee there, I might have

sipped it slower, asked for more, said yes to the pie, apples on top of apples.