Same Door, Different Mesh

My mother is sleeping off the anesthesia.

The house is quiet in that particular way —

not peaceful, just waiting.

I keep ending up at the back door.

The same screen it had when I was ten.

The same aluminum frame, the same small tear

in the lower left corner —

except the tear is patched now.

A square of finer mesh, different gauge,

sewn over the old hole.

You can only see the difference

when the light comes from the west.

I don't know when she did it.

I don't know if she did it herself

or had someone come.

I didn't ask.

I stand here with my tea

going cold in both hands

and look through the two meshes at the yard.

The one I grew up looking through

and the one that's holding it together.

The same dirt patch where the grass won't grow.

The light doing what it does at dusk.

My mother is breathing in the other room.

I can hear it.

That specific sound.