a tin of her peanut butter cookies,
the recipe written out on plain lined paper
in her own immaculate cursive.
the beautiful star-shaped clock I always loved, pulled
from the wall of her own house. She had promised
to leave it to me when she died, but wanted
me to have it now for my house.
a poem she wrote for the occasion.
She stands up to read it aloud, her voice
riding the rhythm in strong, clear waves.
My mother glows with heightened pride.
a large plastic bin
of dish clothes, bowl covers, tea towels,
a dozen commonplace items that stir my heart
with telling of her earmark common sense.