Like the elm branch broken
in last night's storm, my mother
broke once too.  She rarely rose
from the wheelchair after that.  A bad winter day's

gray wind, uselessness blew
between her bones and skidded across
the ice forming at the Hudson's
edge.  The snow's crust caved in

as workers trudged across it
at dawn toward the Otis factory, each of them
a thought she couldn't hold back, a
going-forth she hated.  Her father Mat

returned at night, his one-eyed face
lowering into lager foam, a fact
disappearing into nostalgia.  Mostly
she remembered snow and how

even young she never won at Old Maid.  She
pushed the jigsaw puzzle, a mountain range
with a missing piece, onto the floor.  She listened,
loving the Hudson's silence.