She died without me,
waiting until early morning hours.
Allowing a small grin, I know that if she were here
we’d giggle because we weren’t morning people.
She would have said to me, “I’ll take my leave
when you can’t see.” She knew I would be sleeping.
But that phone, that nurse’s voice,
the words that scarred me: There’s no time
I went, saw her. Saw her, gone.
Mom, you didn’t.
A white room, nursing home,
white blanket over her, hands folded,
not in prayer. That was left to me.
Her legacy? Fifty years of love
and no regrets.
We spoke those words out loud,
she to me, I to her.
They hold me now.