Pictures of You: Joan Wilking

             “Arcadia,” by Joan Wilking

In her last days,
My mother lay
Deaf and half blind
In a hospital bed.

My father sat beside her
In a Naugahyde chair,
Reading the New York Times,
An old man

Already slipping away,
In his suit and tie,
Tiny blood vessels
Popping in his head.

I held her hand.
(Something I hadn’t done since childhood.)
The skin loose,
Smooth.

Her face
Blue veined,
Translucent,
Calm.

Let me go,
She said.
And so
I did.

Afterwards,
The leather bound
Photo album,
The cover,

Brown, tooled
With a gold border of leaves
And pinecones.
Its broad back broken.

All those black and white photos.
Some with scalloped edges.
Some no bigger
Than a matchbook.

Her in satin and chiffon,
Flowers in her hair.
The other women,
Prettier.

She radiates
Brighter than the rest,
Her hand tucked beneath his thigh.
His mouth open in admiration

Or lust.
Picturing them
In love,
Softened the loss.

***
Joan Wilking’s short stories and memoir pieces have appeared in many literary publications in print and online. Her story, Deer Season, was a finalist for the Nelson Algren Short Story Prize. Her story, Clutter, which appears in the current issue of the Elm Leaves Journal, has been nominated for a Pushcart prize. She lives in Ipswich, Massachusetts in a house that overlooks Plum Island Sound. http://www.joanwilking.com/