Midday rays burn her eggshell, lace curtains veiling
the living room. A lawn mower maneuvers
around their oak. Cracks in the driveway
grow, gulping in more Garland drought.
For a weekend,

they’ll watch over me. For some reason,
I will not cry as my parents depart. They will slip
away while my grandmother serves a casserole
dish with macaroni and cheese: cheddar freshly melted.
Through her kitchen window, past the screened-in patio,
waits grandad Lester’s celadon workshop.

There,
my roses croon their heads,
asserting claim—
grown by mistake.
Calvin cycle coursing for the chemist
residing inside. He shows me
how to select the best specimen and
deliver a clip to the stem’s neck.

A music box is wound. It powers
the attached water wheel beside a cottage—
miniature as much home as this house
with its olive shag carpet, angel-carved cuckoo clock, and “Save the Manatees” sticker.

Two school teachers, four children, seven grandchildren—
forming our Thanksgiving safe haven: Hawaiian rolls hot from the oven.
“Made a difference to that one.” We repeat, in chorus.
Made in grief. Made in CiCi’s Pizza
and melt-away pralines.

An equation bristled
by eraser marks:
embedded work
—mystical solution.

A heap of macaroni
scooped onto sliced white bread—
smooshed crusts caved-in.