SHEDDING

Aunt Liz puts every leaf in the table,lays the pad, shakes out the flat sheet —black flowers opening on white.Dave is shedding, cigarette hanging,three songs folding into one anotherwhile he sets up a joke whose turnhe hears a beat before the rest of us.Liz makes a clatter in the kitchen,setting out what Joyce will cook.I climb for the long spoons and the ice bucket,stack records by the turntable.Then I take the list and the crisp Friday bills —capers, anchovies, tonic, cayenne —down the stairs, off the stoop, around two cornersto the Star Market under the Pru.Coming back, tonic knocking in the tote,I lose myself in that mid-century weatherof terraces and ramps. Jeans, Converse,trusted with the odds and ends.By dark the buzzer starts and doesn’t stop.The room fills and finds its tempo: when to listen,when to enter, how regard gets passedhand to hand like a dish down the table.I fill the water glasses. I am learning it by ear.I am keeping it for the year I’ll need it.The room takes one breath. I lift the needle,turn the record over, lower the arm. Take it from the top.

I am in the shed. The evening begins again.