She was from Minnesota,
came from no-nonsense,
tall, blonde, Lutheran stock.
If she wasn’t at work,
she invented some type of chore.
Every night when she slipped
under her bedcovers,
she was satisfied with a job well done,
mentally cataloguing the next day’s tasks,
before she descended to a dreamless sleep.
So she didn’t understand
my laziness on a Saturday morning,
my avalanche of clutter,
the snowdrift of white cat hair
on my broken-down couch,
the one I got for free in college,
my ice cream for breakfast,
old Valentine’s Day cards
stuffed in books I bought but never read.
She sat stiffly in my armchair
when she came over for pizza and a movie,
popped up excitedly when she thought
enough time had passed
and she could gracefully retire.
Better to visit her;
she was much more in her element
in her pristine home.
If I set a glass of wine
on her wooden coffee table,
she would shoot me a frosty glare,
remember who I was,
then the glacier would melt
just a little,
and I would scramble
to find a coaster.
Her fingers were long and bony
and always, always cold.