As her eyesight seeped away
in those last years of living alone,
she knew to use a fingertip
to work small spirals on the deadbolt’s
brass, the way a mouse in winter
sniffs a wall for cracks. It took a while.
Then once she’d found the slot
and wedged her finger there to form
a guideway, she needed a couple
of slow tries to slide the key home.
She’d watched her mother do this
years back. Now it was my turn,
steps behind her in the hallway
steadying the wire cart stuffed with
ShopRite bags. I needed all
the strength I could summon to not
wrench the key from her hand.