My daughter and my nephew,
your twin sister’s grandchildren,
both born long after her death,
recalled today your paschal
lamb cake that you baked
in a mold, then lavished with white
frosting from ears to tail;
recalled, too, butter made
into a ewe. Uncertain
of much else, they were sure that you
fashioned a red ribbon
around the neck of each.
Perhaps that off-the-shelf
lamb made of butter I found
by chance at the corner
grocer last week triggered
their sudden recollection
of you. Their kids looked on
as their parents lapsed into
something other, seized, as you
would say, by the damndest thing.
You would have liked the yellow
railroader gloves I wore
for the egg hunt, the buckets
each kid got to hold their finds.
Will they recall me? Who knows.
Know that I plan to leave
those gloves out before I go,
and, too, the toy rooster that,
when pressed, plays the Chicken.