Saturday by J.R. Solonche

Saturday

Frank came to clean the place,
pick up branches, blow leaves.
My mother died last week, he said.
Oh, I’m sorry, Frank, I said.
She died in her sleep. She was 89,
he said. She lived a full life, I said.
It was peaceful in her sleep, he said.
That’s the best way. In your sleep,
I said. She lived a full life, he said.
I saw her more in the nursing home
than I saw her for thirty years,
he said. I understand. The yard
looks good, I said. But you have
to do something about this, he said,
pointing to the bare ground in front.
The rain coming down the back
is washing away the soil and the grass.
I see that. I should tend to that, I said.
You really need to or you’ll have
no lawn this summer, he said.
Thanks. I’ll tend to it. Sorry about
your mom, I said. Thanks. It’s okay.
I’m okay. We’re okay. She was 89.
She lived a full life. She died in her
sleep. Real peaceful. I hope I go
like that. In my sleep. Don’t forget
the lawn. And the garden needs
work, too. Don’t forget the garden,
he said. I won’t forget, I said.

*

Nominated for the National Book Award and nominated three times for the Pulitzer Prize, J.R. Solonche is the author of 35 books of poetry and coauthor of another. He lives in the Hudson Valley.