She is absent;
not from my life,
but from my early memories.
When asked, she admits that she
was working.
I don't fault her or blame
her for that--still the realization
that for the early years,
my memories do not overarchingly
include my mother
is troubling.
Thunderstorm while sitting on the porch,
an Adirondack chair,
a quilt she made me.
Rain pelting the ground sounding
more like hail than the softer
precipitation,
a bowed head,
heart contrite.
Prayers whispered,
confessions made.
Redemption.
I guess she was there for the most important part.
