To Bequeath a Meteor

My mother's missing hers
and this son has been aloof
tending instead to the stitches
most ignore--
but he listens, he reads
he hopes she finds the anchor
that evades the best of us.

"Remember that stone?"
she asks.
"The old lady said it came crashing
down from the sky with a flash.
When she walked to the spot
where it hit, this oblong rock
with rings in it was waiting for her hand
perfectly smooth and warm."

She goes on to tell me
how my grandmother laughed
as it spun like a top with minimal effort
whenever she twirled it on a flat surface.
I try to recall, but can't.
It's not a block
but someone else's memory
that's collecting dust on a shelf
in the house where I grew up.

Some people leave us
with the same bright burn
as that stone brought.
"Asi es la vida,"
she'd say through dementia.
Such is life, indeed, old darling.

When nothing else feels right
we smirk.