I wander through my parents’ house
cataloging items in my head
thinking, “This is mine. This is mine, too,”
saying, “Mom, you really
should get someone in here to help you clean.”

my mother won’t let a stranger
touch her things, she says, all the things
my father bought her before he passed. my mother
doesn’t need any help
from me, she says. Everything is fine.

my sister calls me late at night
wonders how our mother’s doing, wants
to talk about assisted living, a nursing home
clearing out the house. she wants
the zebra lamps, she says, she wants
the enameled plates from Siam.

I tell her
everything she wants
is already gone.