Curtains

My mother fainted
into our hearth one morning.
She covered up her pain
but I called in from school
at lunch to check she seemed
OK and fried myself two eggs.

Yesterday my sons attacked pasta
and daytime, little by little, dropped.
We talked and ate spaghetti, draped
it over forks. Hanging together
unites a family. After a plateful,
a net of connection fluttered a sparkle.

Nowadays
eating pulls me to myself,
makes me seem to need
to sleep, close up,
to droop, draw in,
stop light.

Parents eventually do drop, but my young family
celebrated the final wink of a sun
and stars raised - their bellies and mischievous eyes,
before curtain call, never still.