Swan Song

I stand in the driveway on the edge of the grass,

awaiting the familiar blue, cage-like car

that has driven onto the black pavement

every weekday morning

for as long as I can remember.

It rolls around the curb lazily,

but when it pulls up next

to me, her white hands

are tight around the steering wheel.

Her hair seems to be a paler

shade of silver than when I last saw her.

In a white blouse and gray slacks,

raising her hand briefly to left shoulder,

she gives me her kind genuine smile

and holds out her arms, spread widely,

like a white-feathered swan

preparing to take flight with her young.

I fly into her arms and press my ear

to the fluttering cadence of her chest.

She cradles me back and forth

in our embrace, humming softly, breathing slowly.

I take her wrinkled hand, skin like leather,

leading her inside to my excited brother,

jumping up and down in his toddler trousers,

and the foolish smirk that has been plastered

on his face since the day he was born.

In a whirl of angel-blond hair

and creamy, pure white skin,

he soars to greet her, wrapping

his little arms around her legs.

White lights flash, kitchen tile glazes,

her car key blazes as she sets

it on the granite countertop.

She laughs, stroking his hair,

and my brother, with his ignorant smile,

lifts his arms to the ceiling, crying,

“Maria! Maria! Pick me up, Maria!”

But our nanny shakes her head,

points to her injured shoulder

– the wing she took us under –

telling him she can never

pick him up again.

When her car bumps out of the driveway

later that evening,

broken glass glistens inside

the shattered backlight,

teasing me like the emerging stars

which we cannot fly and dance with together

with her

anymore.