Doilies

My mother leans on her walker, from her arm

dangle four knitted snowflakes.
Nice placemats! I say.

NO!...NO!! THEY ARE DOILIES! 

She shrieks as if the word placemat scalds her. 

You like them?  -- in her voice such hope.

Yes I do. Only half a lie.  
The knitting's well done, the pattern believable,
and I can feel the red in my gut.

But the snowflakes stay in the bottom 
drawer for decades

until last night when I place them 
under plates at my party. 

These doilies are lovely, someone remarks and
I want to jump from my chair and dance 
for my mother and for this guest who deserves
these doilies more than I but I just 
can't part with them.