Saturday, May 23, 2015

When your Mom Dies

When your Mom Dies
Catherine Cook-Cottone

He said, “One, two, four, six months…”
Okay six, six months.

Six weeks.

Let’s move the bed downstairs.
This looks nice.
In the living room, by the bed, a movie with Mom and Dad
 Mom, eat. Okay? We need you.”
This is nice.
I can do this.

No time with a walker.
No time with a wheel chair.
No time.

Hospice.
Hospice.
Hospice.

I am sorry Mom.”
I am really sorry.
Can you hear me?

I love you too.”
Thank you Mom.
Thank you.

There is no time.

Obituary.
Eulogy.

Waves of knowing.
Mom would like that- oh.
God.

I forgot to show you Chloe’s art.
Maya has a song for you.
God.

I don’t know what to do.
We weren’t finished.
Please.
Ugh.
I miss you.

Work. Dishes. Emails. Phone calls. Laundry.
I am behind.

Oh, look. Mom would like that.

God.







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