Returning Home in Winter
Here, the fog horns seem to multiply,/clocks and bells grieve louder./Strange how I never noticed them before.
Victoria Chang
“Obit,” by Victoria Chang
After my mother died, I looked at a photo where she had moved into assisted living from the ER. Her oxygen tube in her nose, two small children standing on each side. Her hands around their hands pulled tightly to her chest, the chorus of knuckles still housed, white like stones, soon to be freed, soon to be splashing like horses.
