The quail candle from Oakland, Aunt Mary’s gift,
came for you on your anniversary after she died —
a few days earlier in the spotless room at Alta Bates.

Now, two years later, on your anniversary, I want to say,
she left more gifts. ln my dream, she arrived in a small
yellow car, leaving children, grandchildren— waiting,

Huddled, crowded in the back seat of the canary yellow
compact. “What have you, Mary?” “Pictures” she
answered, “a present.” While bringing such gifts

On visits, she rolled pictures briskly. Two child-made
watercolors emerged: one, a pint-size Cezanne might
have sketched. The redwoods decorated a mountainside—

Emerald candles on a conical bronze Christmas tree.
The second, a miniature Klee, could have fashioned
a glittering myriad of sea creatures floated and bobbed

In an inky blue sea. ”Who made them?” I touched the
yellowed paper. “It’s hard to say. Read the signature.”
Her nervous fingers tapped wobbly letters I couldn’t

Decipher. Pondering, I asked, “Perhaps you did them
as a child, or was it my dad’s?” Mary spoke no more.

I knew she wanted me to have them.