Saturday, November 24, 2007
Chair, Luxembourg Gardens
They want to scatter your ashes into this black and white impression. A bleached Seurat, with all the dots connected.
“Do you need me to write the obituary, Maman? Just say the word.”
You were hopeless at speaking French. I could barely pronounce your prickly name.
“We really need to get on this. If we want to make the Sunday edition.”
I wore a dress meant for Sundays. You spun your hat on a sun-sweetened finger.
“It’s just a matter of getting our facts straight. What year did Dad graduate from Brown?”
I dipped my toes in a nervous fountain. You laughed, and juggled Cezanne’s peaches.
“Do you remember?”
The juice dribbled down my chin.
I touch this paper chin.
What do I remember?
Not enough (a chair in Paris).
Now empty (too much).
He moved deeper than all color.