This is a rich poem, an homage to Jane's mother, to all mothers, to aging, to care! I am thoroughly touched by this poem. Monkey pods We¹d planned the day the new museum her heart¹s desire yet when we made it through the line I could see her sag into herself her rounded shoulders trying to hold their own but her eyes giving in so when she eyed the wheelchairs I asked and she acquiesced. How long should I stand before this painting? Is it the Aztec room or photography next? Was the vase as interesting if one was sitting? I¹d ask but she demurred. Perhaps getting close to her face so she could read my lips became more an interruption. Suddenly all this was in my hands. When we¹d tired we left by way of the gift shop‹ her traditional post card for her scrapbook. While she looked I window shopped picked up a rattle monkey pods tied and woven to a stick I shook it near my ear the soft shush of the pods swishing a tiny clack when they hit each other like a Tui bird in a banyan tree. She was ready and we left. Later when I said goodnight she took my face in her hands I want you to have that rattle. I can¹t hear it but I saw you listen.