Shelf Paper

This poem needs a rewrite--just having trouble finding my in--please review to help.

Aunty Marge had always been a giver.
Bestowing what her Old Age Pension
Left behind after the home took its cut.
As she decayed—her mind faster than her body—
Uniformity became an obsession:
Each Christmas a surprise only for the first to find her gift:
“Patty-stackers!” Mom hooted. “Give me the phone.”
Sisters share these moments, I hear,
“Better than the shelf paper,”
Cold and electric, fall from the receiver,
Rolling unnoticed under a pile of crumpled wrapping
To lie waiting to be discarded.

I opened the chest of drawers,
The guestroom’s finest piece of furniture:
Dark wood glistening and smooth:
A cool surface reflecting a dark shadow:
An outline of me.
The drawer was filled with lilacs—no:
An odor of lilac, an…approximation.
“Are you crying?” she asked.
You kept Marge’s shelf paper.
“No, Mom—just remembering.”
I tore a corner of the paper, lining my wallet
With the gift of lilacs.