On this, the first Mother’s Day

since my mother passed on,

I still celebrate the other mothers

in my life: my wife, her mother,

my grandmother, ninety-five this month;

a good friend, glowing as a first-time “grandma”.

But beneath this, an undercurrent of

sadness, like a low-grade fever.

The last few years, there was a distance

of hearts, not miles.

I would come every Mother’s Day, bearing

a card, a potted plant, and my inconveniece.

I would stay as long as I could stand

her cigarettes, or her husband.

A river flowed between us, cutting

a deeper chasm in the rock every year.

Now her ashes are interred with him,

who wanted a Catholic burial.

I won’t discuss the ironies in that.

So today, part of me extends best wishes,

sincerely, to all the mothers I know.

The other part walks the bottom of the chasm

and watches the afternoon sun

draw dark curtains up the walls.

05/13/2003

Posted on 05/14/2003
Copyright © 2024 Bruce W Niedt