In the back office there was the push-pin map of all the places she’d been,
a certificate of a solo hot-air balloon ride over north Jersey
a box from the Soviet Union marked with a Post-it note and my initials,
across the hall, my grandfather’s separate room.
I remember that as a child
I had tried to smooth out the wrinkles in her face
to see if she hid her secrets there
so I could pull them from her like turnips, red and bitter
and offer them to my mother.