Inheritance

Inheritance

I met you last night in a dream

in the old house.

You were rearranging the furniture

as I always remembered you doing.

The orange wallpaper

with its 70’s brown swirls

still throbbed

like a psychedelic toothache.

And there was the odd vacant smell

of disinfectant

as though someone had attempted to wash

away a previous occupancy

and not quite managed.

“Just help me with this coffee table, dear.”

You, Mother, were up to your elbows

in the heft of transmigration.

“I thought this time, if I put the armchair

there … that’s how you liked it

as a little girl, remember?”

I never imagined a ghost could have

such strength and stamina.

I supposed then

you must be in it for the long haul.

“I’ve been rearranging things for years,”

you said.

“Bringing the decor closer to my taste.

Tweaking this flower arrangement.

Turning that picture

to the wall.

Repositioning the contours of your face.

You must have noticed.”

Judy Johnson