April Fox

In my trunk there is a photograph
of me at age fifteen,
one of my daughter at three,
and my grandma’s cookie jar.

There is a bag on the seat
next to me
with bits and pieces of her life
taken from her bedroom.
I haven’t looked inside but I reached in and felt
a book, and I wonder
if the pages smell like her.

Her chair is in the wrong place.

Her bed is gone.

There are crumbs in the cookie jar, who knows how old, and still
I can feel her hands,
petal-soft
against my face
I can hear voice,
an echo
in the unfamiliar air
And I wonder if the space she left behind
will ever fill
with something else.