We have started to play double solitaire,
he to practice flexing his brain, me to learn more
patience, and this morning, when he gets up at four,
flicks the light so he can find his dusty work clothes
and begins to talk to me about nothing, I wake too,
first grudgingly, annoyed, and then completely,
putting my patience to the test, excited by the dark.
While he has a cigarette I brush my teeth, avoiding
the beetle trapped in the copper sink, not drowning it
with toothpaste but still too groggy for any kind of rescue.
The rest of the house-sisters and nephews and brothers-
in-law, two cats, a dog, a goldfish, the uncountable
winged creatures-is asleep. We shuffle the cards
as quietly as we know how, place them on the table
seven across without the flip and snap we're used to.
Each of us has our own game, but we share the aces.
The decks are slipperier than the ones we use at home
and a jack of clubs slides into my lap. It's overly
sentimental, but to me it looks so much like him, uncrowned,
that my throat closes. I want to know what it's like to lose
your mind as he did, and then remake it, over decades,
playing solitaire with the woman who loves you
instead of high stakes poker, the straight roads inside your head
turning into mountain lanes, switching back on each other,
suddenly one-way. How many dead ends does he run into
every day and what does it take to back up, turn around
and try to get where he's going? He remembers my name, but not
how to make a blank page come up in his computer, not
the name of his new boss, unless I say "Robert E." and then
he finishes "Lee." I don't know what to do except deal out the cards,
not rushing to put my three on his two of hearts but not holding back
too long either-it's not in my nature, and it would be condescending.
I just watch him in his measured way unfold his hand and play
what he's been dealt, black five on the red six, jack on the queen,
morning lifting into the sky, a quartered peach and two cups of coffee
steaming in white cups between us.