What would make you feel better?

“What would make you
feel better?” Ramon asks.
“Lilacs,” I say though it’s April
in Maine, and he drives me
to Ellsworth for lilacs for you.
You never grew lilacs.
The island had only two seasons.
“July and winter,” you called them.
The florist says, “Those are lilacs, yes.”
I can hardly believe it. I say, “I want lilacs,
please, lilacs.” No ribbon, no sympathy,
only the clusters of lavender, only
the heart-shaped leaves that make me feel better.

“What would make you
feel better?” Ramon asks.
“Tucson,” I answer. Oh, Nana, last winter
I sent you a postcard from Tucson
before you were dead, but you didn’t
like Tucson. It was too far away.
He brings me a cactus.
“I know it’s not Tucson,”
he says, but its stout spines
remind me of saguaro and make me feel better.

“What would make you
feel better?” Ramon asks.
“A weevil. Inquisitive weevils
poking about whenever they visit.
A weevil would make me feel better.”
You never said much about weevils.
You must not have liked them. I miss you.
He cuts out a picture, a weevil
as big as a gopher. He pastes
it on thick black paper. “I looked
for a real one,” he says and I tell him
that this one still makes me feel better.

“What would make you
feel better?” Ramon asks.
I’m thinking. “A canyon,” I tell him.
“A big one or a small one?” he asks.
“A big one or a small one,” I answer.
“Any canyon will do.”
He walks off behind me.
He’s gone to the kitchen, he’s crinkling,
he’s squishing. I ask why. He tells me,
“I’m crumpling this thing up.”
You were frightened of canyons. You didn’t
Like thinking of me climbing down them,
but, Nana, they make me feel better.
When he’s finished he brings me
a miniature canyon. White with blue lines,
it was once a blank invoice.
Now it’s a landscape I hold
in my hands and it makes me feel better.