5 Feet, 20 Years Apart

I wrote this in June 2022, when I was staying the month with Mom in Ohio. It was an awesome stay. I'm blessed I had it. She died that November. She was 88. Happy Mother's Day Mom. I miss you everyday!

They sit
five feet 
and twenty years
apart.

Her hazel eyes still 
dance with 
a bit of mischief,
but are tired 
and weary,
impossible to hide 
the years of worry
and toil and burden
of motherhood.

He’s twenty years
behind her, 
her first and oldest
with eyes that show
their own worry and wear
yet still hold
a softness for most
all she says.

Joyce Anne, aka Mom, & Rich a few summers ago.

She talks
and talks 
in rambling 
disjointed circular
monologues, mostly
starting a conversation 
with distant details
of convoluted context
and quickly snaps 
at questions about
her intent with ‘Well,
let me finish. I’m trying 
to tell you!’

It’s frustrating
and frequently infuriating
but he takes a breath,
reminds himself 
of the twenty-year
difference and attempts 
to acquiesce.

They’re five feet apart 
on her front porch,
sitting in wide armed
white wicker chairs,
sharing a bottle of rose,
a bowl of olives, 
a board of cheese 
and hummus and
carrots, pita chips,
and pepper salami that
she’s convinced
will be too spicy 
and make 
her choke, plus
the wine’s too cold
for her COPD throat. 

Along with her 
concern about 
salt in the salami
and acid in the thin slice
of backyard tomato she just ate,
she doesn’t understand
how anyone could vote for that man, 
what the Supreme Court was thinking 
when it overturned Roe, 
or why her geraniums 
look so lousy 
when just a week ago
they were gorgeous, 
full and vibrant red.

‘Look at those plants 
over in Carol’s yard,
just bursting,’ 
she says, then adds,
‘I think someone’s 
dog peed on mine.’

She sips the rose.
He just stares
into her hazel eyes
and doesn’t know
what to say.

It’s the silence
in such conversations
that seem to un-nerve her,
the void an unknown
she wants to fill 
before it gets too big
and engulfs her.

He wonders 
about her partial
and her sunken cheeks, 
her thinning hair, 
worries about her
balance and lack of it,
her waning sense of adventure
and fear about 
nearly everything 
outside her door
beyond her porch.

He worries about
how much time 
she spends watching CNN
and her special daytime show 
and how little time 
she spends in the sunshine
and breathing 
fresh air.

She waters the fern,
deadheads the sad geraniums,
and notes with glee
all the buds and blooms 
on her hostas.

He stares
into her hazel eyes
and knows it’s wise
to let her go,
let her meander
through her days
not to his projected
expectations 
but to her priorities 
and shifting motivations.

She sips her rose
and cracks 
a mischievous smile:
‘Let's have 
another slice 
of that tomato.’