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.