On today's NYTimes Op-Ed page, Tom Friedman writes how he feels that this is the first time he can't call his mother,she died this year. Read it, good article. Me, I can't call mine either, she died in January. So let me post one last time my poem, "Visiting His Mother."
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Visiting His Mother
She doesn’t say anything when he comes in
and says, “Hi, how are you doing? Did you
have lunch yet?” She smiles and nods yes,
but does not speak.
He says “I brought you some nice stuff, I
brought you chocolate, and do you know that we
are coming here for Mother’s Day? We’ll
have broiled salmon, like you used to make.”
Why did he say that? Why talk about what
she used to do? She says nothing, just looks
at him, her son, who is back again, to fill
the medicine boxes, and change the radio
from news to music.
She likes it. She smiles when he puts on
the classical station. Later in the living
room, he will put on a new CD he thinks
she will like. It will be the Segovia Bach,
which will remind her of how he played
guitar, when he still lived in her home,
her son.
On Mother’s day, don’t have the aide come,
not that day. Just us, without the TV on
all day. He hates it that the woman is
always there, but she keeps her clean
and takes her for the walk, and he tells
himself, not the nursing home, not her
in a nursing home, where they keep
them in the wheelchair, and they have to watch
TV all afternoon.
How long will it take, he wonders? But
she smiles when he shows her the pictures
of her great grandchildren. She is happy,
and he comes every week. Again, his father
says he is the happiest man in the world.
At the elevator, he remembers he
forgot to say good bye.
martingreene © 2004
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