I steer a mustard-seed Mini through snow
across the park, near the Conservatory,
the glowing flowerbeds erased by white.
Outside a building on Lakeview, I park.
The elevator man flings open doors
to a high-ceilinged, eggshell drawing room.
Mrs. Vanderbilt, in silk with beaded florets,
sits elegant in a wheelchair while guests—
dizzy in gowns, white ties—whirl around her.
The youngest in the room, I greet my parents’
long-time friends. An older man, debonair,
grazes my wrist, hands me a flute of froth.
I glimpse headlines, spread across a highboy,
dated years from now, about this man’s wife,
his fourth. She outlives him into her nineties.
Across her blouse an antique necklace glints,
her husband’s photo tucked inside the locket.
Her story, I realize, is my obituary.
His jacket sleeve, shiny to touch. The band
repeats “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” as he swings
us out, pulls close. My stomach drops as if
inside the Otis elevator losing
altitude. He tries to sway me to leave
before another bell begins to ring.