Easter Morning

Easter –
door open,
inviting in the sun,
we are weeding
your new front lawn,
three-by-three patch of grass
and shrub, risen
to the level
of the third cement step
and the bottom branches
of bush planted too close
to the townhouse
you bought just two months ago.
The suddenness of that wasp
light-speeding from the gutter,
defying physics like a miracle,
nosing a way into your home.
 
That look on your face
when I pull the steel door shut.
“Mom! I don’t have my keys!”
You lean in front of the stainless knob.
The stubbornness of it.
“Wait,” I say, breaking off the end
of a weak earring. “Try this.”
You feed the keyhole my jewelry,
curse, fingers coaxing tumblers.
But the metal tip splits,
lodges in the lock,
jams the handle all together,
and I mumble,
“Well this is problematic.”
 
Have I mentioned it was Easter?
Have I mentioned the windows
were sealed tighter
than your angry lips?
Have I mentioned you couldn’t recall
the garage door code?
Have I said I knew you
thought me a fool,
but I was well intentioned,
protecting you
even at this late age
when you no longer believed
in guardian angels or gratitude?
 
That handyman we ended up calling.
The one who drove an hour,
somehow disassembled the doorknob,
changed out the bolts,
grease beneath his fresh cut nails.
Telling us it was no problem at all.
He’d left church to let us in,
worked in a white Sunday suit,
one knee on the welcome mat,
the other on concrete.
He opened the door for us.
Saved us from ourselves.
“No charge,” he said to you.
“God told me I should come.”