It's odd how remembrance of the dead
surfaces like stingrays suddenly arise
from underneath the water at an aquarium's pond.
Apparently, the rays long to interact with children's hands
patting the water hoping to pet the passing ghostly animal
whose slick silken flesh startles gasping withdrawals.
I am scrolling through an internet auction
when my tapping fingers summon an old brass call bell,
and suddenly I remember my mother's love of chimes.
Whenever a tone rang out, she clapped her hands
like a child lit up with joy at some pleasant surprise.
I inherited her small collection as memorial of her demise.
But this internet bell awakens sudden tears.
Perhaps the dead wait for such moments,
surfing in to make contact with us slapdashing
around pools of memory without much awareness
until startled by ghostly apparitions of recollection
that brush against trembling poets' hands now withdrawn.