Our Mother's gone;
We are alone.
Her body lies here,
Husk and cob,
Soul's wrapper, shed;
Her hands
Hushed in the presence of death
I see her hands,
hold them one last time.
fingers that cooked
thousands of meals,
mended jeans,
darned socks,
scrubbed floors,
cleaned and cleaned,
and cleaned;
turned Scripture pages,
mended my wounds.
Her feet
Cooling now,
But a little warm,
Remind me:
old canvas work shoes,
shuffling walk
pigeon-toed
(I walk like her)
Her hands and feet remind me:
foot rubs,
back rubs,
often with a song...
While we were growing up;
later on, when she was old
she'd ask me to raise my foot
so she could give me
a "reflexology" treatment.
I never refused.
In the stillness of death,
I grasp her feet,
Give them one last squeeze.
"Mom, I owe you thousands."
But she is gone.
First reflections on the loss of my Mother. Love you, Mom.