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Get Published on Female First
My mother died last December, she was 83.
My sons' mother died three years ago, on yesterday's date.
I received a phone call from my younger son;
How do you feel on this day? I had to be honest.
I had blocked it. The reels were lined up, ready to re-roll.
Did not need to re-live those long hours.
You might ask yourself, “Why?!”, do I impose such stuff.
Am I seeking sympathy; didn’t I get enough?
No! My patient friends, my situation is not unique;
it is not your prurient curiosity or anger to pique.
Many will have their own story; would be able to relate.
I wish to reflect on something, for which it is too late.
Oui, Mamam. Yes, mother dear. Mamam was my choice of endearment;
sadly, she never heard me say it. Telephone conversations were interesting,
as monologues go. She fought hard to succeed, but her hearing was fading;
she and her hearing aid seemed to lose each other.
A sliver of choice and an avalanche of circumstance set the stage.
Our relationship was strained, no broken, by external command.
Speak not to me of the “good old days”; I heard of them from her.
I recall my grandfather, with little fondness; what he demanded of her
was total unquestioning obedience. She was quiet, but determined;
she bided her time; she succeeded where others said she would fail.
So, what’s my point; what’s my tale? What is there to understand?
You have your grief; I have mine! I will tell you what I miss.
The small things, every-day things; did you know that so and so did this,
and do you remember when (it was so funny); and on that day it was so sunny.
To have a chance to ask about him and her; where they fitted into the fold.
Beyond our control, our time together for many years had been bought and sold.
We reunited, I was 30; so many years had passed. We were islands apart.
So many experiences not shared; where were we to begin?
I chose my information carefully; she was more willing to give.
Chaos, chance and choice; that is how I term the tides of human fortune.
Inadequate, at best, to bridge the gap forged by time;
we tried our best, nonetheless; a rocky mountain to climb.
So, here I sit; I will hear her voice no more. There are things I wanted to share.
“I wrote a poem; it got published”; “that’s good, my son, I am so proud”.
It will not be in this world that it will be so.
In another. somewhere in eternity, we shall meet.
“Hello, Mamam, I love you; I always did”; she will smile,
and say, “I know, and your poem: I am so proud”.
Tagged in les bush