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The third segment of the rail hung askew,
twisted and disconnected.
I couldn't make it line up correctly.
Just as my mother's life never lined up correctly to mine.
But if I could just fix a few things,
maybe she would want to make it feel like home again.
Turning on the kitchen faucet,
a disorganized spray spatters the stainless steel.
It needed a screen, which was probably
in her brass pipe, covered in resin.
At the supermarket the screen was $1.99.
Fixed in a moment for perfectly aerated water.
And the screen door, its silly hydraulic undone on one end,
Protruding like a broken arm.
Pissing me off every time it scraped, metal against metal.
I was patient for days. But then I opened my tool box,
released the screws and discarded the crippled piece.
And of everything else that I closed my eyes to -
Cupboards in disarray, bowls under plates precariously leaning.
I left them to crash.
The mailbox sideways and loose, one in a row
of twenty straight soldiers.
A puzzle for the mailman.
Yes, each time I go I leave some things to remind her
that her brokedown palace still bears her name.
EMILY BONDEN
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