Pearls

Just once, my sister forgot
to take back my mother's pearls
when she returned to the nursing home
and they were gone the next day
off her cherry wood dresser
standing faithfully,
although the glue had let go
of the photos in the albums inside.

Now they are somewhere else,
long after my mother has died,
and for a string of hard, round months
I was hoping
they would cause ill to the thief
for their neglect of my mother
and her elegant collarbones
that held her thin and speckled skin.

I'd yelled at the director
who didn't seem to care,
and then at my own neglect,
because my mother was a stranger to me
and I didn't want to know it.
And so I want her pearls to be pretty,
to let someone's beauty be known,
or to just be with whomever they are,
taking in and softening the light.