Sunday, May 8, 2011

Mother's Day

For years now,
the only flowers
on Mother’s Day
were at her grave, but
I’ve never placed them there.

Even with an airport next door,
it is quiet. No one
visits. Even
the dead wish to be
elsewhere.

Except for her,
since
she chose
this place and
bought her ticket here
with the sureness
of all those sons
headed home
today.

Her short note
was suffused with
the smell of peonies and
sourness, ripeness and
lateness.

She wrote with 
the most beautiful
handwriting, was careful
with each word
in a way she never was
with her children,
said I love you without
knowing why,
said goodbye
without ever leaving.



R.

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