Flumes Volume 2: Issue 1, Summer 2017 - Page 94


by Zu Vincent

We called about our plumbing and he came

sick with cancer. Determined, he struggled to the floor

rolled on his back, reached under our sink. Arms

stick and bone, shirt soaked, limbs resisting, he

pulled things apart, wielding wrench, pipe

connections like a complex puzzle, strangely stuck

in a once familiar place. His wife had been canning,

sent us two jars of pears he’d placed on the counter.

They rested now, above him, pear halves hugging

palm over palm, put up for winter, waiting to be opened,

their sweet juice enjoyed,

once he’d gone.