A Middle-Aged Boy Mourns His Mother
You know that woman you saw in the grocery store, stocking up on frozen vegetables and paper towels, tissue and toilet paper for her family? That was my mother, too. That woman who waved at you when you stopped to let her cross the street in front of you? That was my mother, too.
That woman who cut you off on the freeway, then flipped the finger when you laid on your horn? That was my mother, too. That woman on TV sewing a blanket for her first grandchild, or bringing out pumpkin pie after Thanksgiving dinner? That was my mother, too. That woman who carried you in her womb, raised you and then sent you off into the world, smiling beneath her tears? That’s my mother, too.
Impermanence
During the last days of my mother’s life I escaped
every afternoon: to live, to be near things and feel
the air; to be touched by all the diligent tensions
striving to ensure all things that die feed new life—
a rhythm of reactions able to befuddle the faithful
and inspire skeptics (or vice versa), all of it inexplicable
unless we see something of ourselves inside everything
we can’t unconditionally know, finding some purpose
between our resolve and resignation: a realized peace.
I went to the lake—a respite from those uncomfortable
thoughts and inexorable family rituals, the only place
I was ever alone those final days when we stood sentinel,
guarding the woman we loved after she could no longer
speak for or protect herself; where, as a summer sun set,
the impassive sky stared down and saw its ancient face
reflected up, while illimitable stars began to faintly glow,
the day’s light not dying so much as surrendering itself—
this unceasing cycle less conclusion than a continuation.
Our Mothers, Whose Art is Heaven
If men ultimately succeed in burning this earth,
all our mothers will weep to drown the fire,
flooding every home and sidewalk and valley
with salted tears, turning a scorched landscape
into an ocean of accord, overwhelming the sea
itself, polluted to death with plastic and poison,
and all living creatures will learn to breathe
underwater, finally becoming formless beings
—a remedial evolution reversing eons wherein
this planet became a waystation for undeveloped
souls—as the sun implodes and the moon grows
numb in darkness, a silent peace holding sway
in the serenity of a deathless, maternal eternity.
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
