Years ago, my mother told me

if I wear makeup to bed

when death comes knocking,

I’ll be ready for the date.

I phone her. No answer.

Outside my window, the last

of yellow butter dahlia we planted

stand undimmed.

I drive to her house

against wind whirring its lament.

The grey of day rubs

pencil lead across the sky.

On the road, a window display

of stiff mannequins posing

through a bare canvas stare,

vacant-eyed, in little black dresses.

A sudden longing for café con leche

made with large dollops of milk and sugar,

her color, warm. My need right now.

Hands shaking, I open the door.

Silence smothers me.

I begin to bargain with the universe,

I can be a better daughter.

Her face is loose and make-up free,

unadorned, fixed in a final blank.

She was wrong. So wrong.

A fist catches in my throat.