A tiny patch of sky, three grape hyacinths in a bowl by the front door, a scrap of fabric on the table.
Who will be the one to paint the windows and doors after we’re gone. Who will remember my quick dash into the hardware store on Lonsdale Avenue 40 years ago, a colour firmly in my head, and choosing within minutes. Who will remember the little quilt I made for F. when he was small, the window by his bed, the green woods beyond. Who will draw the curtains. Who will be the one.
In the garden last week, a single Algerian iris from John’s mother’s garden. By the back door, a little pot of finished iris to be planted in the garlic bed. Waiting, a skein of thread, the cloth not cut, the seams unsewn. And Basho, heading out on the road to the far north, his straw sandals laced with their blue cord.
I have tied them to my feet
as sandal cords