What We Do

I was at my dad’s apartment

when my sister called to tell us

that my mother was Stage 4

and the doctor’s only gave her

6 months left to live.

My father and I looked at each other

and without one word

we immediately,

and simultaneously,

began cleaning his apartment.

I took the coffee table.

It was littered with coins and

half-eaten packs of mint Rolaids.

He took the carpet next to the front door,

gathered up his dirty clothes,

wound an orange extension cord around his arm

which had been tangled against the wall

and plugged into nothing.

I picked a book up off the table.

Can’t remember what.

Probably Clancy.

The pages were warped by time and weather.

I tried to close it

But it wanted to stay open and contorted.

We didn’t cry then.

That’s not what we do.

We fix things.

And by God, we’d fix this.

We’d organize all those coins

into tightly pressed rolls

fit for a bank deposit.

We’d plug that extension cord into something useful

And iron out those unkempt Clancy pages.

Then we’d do the dishes

And the laundry

And paint the walls

And steam clean the carpet.

Then we’d get fucking serious.

We’d take it outside.

Sweep up all the deserts.

Towel off all the oceans.

Organize the stars into a nice sensible grid.

We’d take all the chaos

And give it structure,

Give it meaning,

Finally make some sense of this goddamn madness

Once and for all.

Because that’s what we do.