Lemon Wedges

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for Eden 

Lemon wedges in a dish

placed around our home.

I come upon them

in the bathroom,

in the hallway corner

at the foot of the back stairs,

in the basement next to the condemned fireplace.

A test for ghosts, my daughter says,

if our house is haunted

the lemons will grow mold,

if not, they'll dry and shrivel up.

Some nonsense she read online.

Waste of perfectly good fruit, I say.

They're here, she says, I feel their presence,

hear creepy sounds in the walls 

and beneath the floor,

and didn't a previous owner

die in your bathroom, she asks.

What about that water stain 

on the ceiling that keeps coming back

no matter how often we plaster and paint?  

Have you checked the attic?

We don't have an attic, just a crawl space,

she's seen too many movies. 

But I've heard the noises -

smile at her doubtfully.

Why lemon wedges, 

why not potatoes? Or tomatoes?

Stymied by my logic she has no answer,

not that it matters,

my daughter is at that irrational age;

spends too much time online,

wears too much make-up and

tight clothes that show too much skin,

listens to loud, angry music, 

smokes pot, drinks booze, and curses

like a sailor.

That age when there are no limits,

too much is not enough, 

the days stretch out ahead without end,

and anything is possible,

except death.

I think about me, when I was her age, 

what my parents thought,

how I drove them mad with my antics,

and the love I felt in spite of it. 

I too believed that anything was possible,

because feeling loved 

does that to you, 

makes you believe.

Lately, I check the lemon wedges

for mold.