Notes on My Mother’s Desk

Command central in the kitchen with  
                     the empty space
          underneath where I liked to hide. A calendar tacked to corkboard
                                 tracked the lives of your four (four!) boys —

tee-ball practice, cub scout banquet, orthodontist. A worn journal
                      hidden/not hidden 
           in the drawer documented chicken poxes, mumps vaccinations,
                                 my brown recluse spider bite, your three

“missed abortions” — how I have stared at
                those words.
           A Rolodex tallied Christmas cards exchanged — year, S for sent, R for received.
                                A metal letter opener you told me never

to stick in the light socket. (After that I could never not think about
                      the light socket.)
           And those little spiral notepads where you planned our 6:00 on-the-dot dinners —
                               meat loaf, creamed tuna fish on toast, hash. Later

when the older boys made their Sunday night long-distance calls
                      I watched you
           sit at that desk, the phone’s long cord twisting into knots as you
                                 took notes on those little notepads, curled leaves of memory:

Chip — job good — marathon next weekend
Pete — job good — Red Sox game — Springsteen concert
Steve —