Subtler curtains for the kitchen,

rose paint, a broad mirror 

in each room to create

the illusion of space,

and for her birthday, she bought herself

a chandelier—not imposing,

but delicate, spindly, with sweet

glass tears dangling from its branches. 

We settled in, naturals.  

Our sixth home. 

The previous tenant died there

at 98. He left behind 

unfinished carvings of squirrels 

and other woodland creatures,

which we kept for good luck 

and to appease his spirit:

Archibald the Blue Jay,

Sloan the Rat, strong names

for strong animals, like us.  

Over a late dinner,  

I asked if we could bring them along 

the next time we moved.

“What do you mean the next time?”

A sad smile.  She reached up 

and twirled the chandelier 

so the dark room glittered 

with shooting stars. I followed 

a speck of light from the wall, 

to my plate, to her face,

where it vanished.