Windex Etude

     My mother had to have the radio on.
     It popped out of her luggage before the Sea Breeze, when we traveled.
     She entered any room as a surgeon or a teacher might have, her hands always busy pinching and shaping the space, modeling the clay into a stylish bust—a perfect room. Music and ashtrays. Milk glass candy dishes and plastic flowers. Side tables and throw pillows.
     She progressed across the floor picking up dirt, bent like the Negroes in old plantation photographs. I remember her in white cotton pullovers, the sleeves jacked tightly up her forearms—the better to accommodate scouring the bathroom sink.
     Her slippers, always parked beneath her silvery velour swivel chair, napped the weekday afternoons away like a pair of cats. The placement of her cigarette pack and lighter had an enviable formality—a neat, happy decision: a couplet.
     She wipes the phone receiver, flips the calendar, and disappears into memory.
     Quietly, I rotate a philodendron's face toward the sun.