Vanishing Point

As a child, I  first learned the concept

watching my mother’s face
fade from the school bus window, shrinking
like a pale moonflower
from the sky and sun.

I heard its definition voiced

in those Grimm fairytales
where someone left, never
 to be seen  or heard from again

Yet, as a daughter,  I never

expected to map the phrase
on a long distance call . Tuesday night
we talked and you traveled
along  the surreal, saying  a strange door
had appeared near your bed.

And when you opened it,

there was a girl offering
blue eggs and  feathers
on a sterling tray. She motioned  you
to follow and leave the room.

I asked if you were dreaming.

You whispered,  perhaps,  not  persuaded
by  that logic  And then,  you relayed
you were tired and needed to rest.
The receiver hung-up, shadowed
by a ceiling fan in slow motion.  

Yesterday, I called the nurses’ station

and asked to speak with you. They checked
and said Marion was sleeping 
but had awoken earlier. 7 a.m.

as a woman named Joy --

worried about linen draperies
and the cost of  remodeling her house.