CALLING CROWS
From her chair by the window, Mother watches crows settle in the pines. I can call them, she says. I caw and they come.
Underneath the table, her tiny dog snores his tiny snore. I search through piles of papers on the desk for notices and bills; I make us cups of tea. She scolds me for carrying a stack of books she thinks too heavy. I scold her because she bends to pick a paperclip from the floor.
She won’t write captions for the family photos, her trip to Mexico after the War. I don’t bring her copies of my poems or tell her I’m writing a book.
Our failures persist like rusty stains on Grandma’s tablecloth. Mother can say You’re doing so well. You make me so happy but that’s not something I know how to hear. You did what you had to do, I can say, but she knows so well that I am wrong.
Caw, she says, caw. Now come and see.