Tuesday, November 8, 2011

the most important part

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
a bowed head, 
heart contrite.
Prayers whispered,
confessions made.

I guess she was there for the most important part.


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