Requiem

A last fond look at what had been home
for the last 30 years as my son's car
rounded the corner at end of our block.

Light rain washed the dust
and bird poop off the front window,
everything looked blank and gray.

We passed the office building
where Sam, now dead, had worked,
the grocery store where I spent hours
picking the best bananas, the school
I went to as a child,

then we were there,

a place where overly smiley faces greeted us,
someone took my suitcase,
helped me into a wheelchair,

a man approached with papers
for my son to sign, as if I was a package
being dropped off for storage.

Settled in my room, my downsized stuff
neatly stowed, someone tuned the TV
to Days of Our Lives,
as if that was now my future,

son smiled and hugged me, said
see you for lunch on Sunday,

I watched him disappear
down the hallway
as a funeral home commercial
flashed on the TV screen.