Posthumous

At Thanksgiving one year,
I had a conversation with my friend’s mother about books
And life, and how unpleasantly dry her mouth was without
Saliva.

A little thing you don’t think of as a comfort

Until it’s gone.

She died a few weeks later when we were out of town.

Today her daughter brought me a gift.
I had hoped to go with the daughter to see
A Cezanne exhibit in a far city,
But the logistics proved too much.

In a box of her mother’s things, she found
A beautiful, new book, never opened:
Cezanne.

A gift for me to remember the artist, and

Karen.