i am the daughter who is not there

i am the daughter of the widow
who is moving out of her home.

she is climbing through the stuff of 38 years
and calls to tell me she has a book i took out of
the bertram woods library in november, 1981.
"it's overdue," she says.
"but it's Gilbert and Sullivan. i'll
save it for you."

i am 100s of miles away
collecting the clutter of my own family
our own overdue books.

and dad, in the mahogany box on the barrister's shelf in the green room
is of no help either.