I miss her laugh the most,
the way it would shake itself
out into nothingness,
like all the air had gone
and she could find no more,
but it was a happy place to be.
Sometimes she would get so tickled
my uncle had to slam his hand
against her back to get her
breathing again, but that
made her laugh all the more.
I miss those late nights
I’d spend reading in my room,
during the few summers
I lived with her.
I would make my way
into the bathroom for my
nightly routine of washing a face
and brushing my teeth,
and the dining room light
would still be blazing,
and there she’d sit at the table
in purple slippers with a
crossword puzzle open
in front of her. She’d be
chewing on the end of a pencil,
oblivious to the stacks of papers
shoved in corners. She’d have a
bag of potato chips or Riesen caramels
open and ready at her elbow.
I miss her purple lipstick
that always left traces on her teeth
and the way I would watch her
leave for work at the school
down the road while I
got ready for my own job across town.
She’d always remind me
to lock the door on my way out
and be sure to unplug
the curling iron.
I didn’t use a curling iron,
but I never told her that.
I miss seeing her slumped
on the couch in the middle
of the ten o’clock news, which she
insisted on watching every night,
and I miss the feel of her hand
on mine whenever she was near me.
I miss her curly black-white hair,
and I miss those eyes that never
seemed to miss a thing and the
handwriting in all caps and the
old Agatha Christie volumes
that sat on her shelves,
battered from excessive re-reading.
I miss the way she might have
looked at my sons and the
laughter that might have
shaken itself out into silence
at every humor piece
I carefully crafted with
her in mind.
She might not have lived
a remarkably extraordinary life,
just one that was
remarkably ordinary.
But in my memory,
she is a giant.
This is an excerpt from Textbook of an Ordinary Life: poems. For more of Rachel’s poems, visit her Reader Library page, where you can get a few volumes for free.
