I grasped Mom’s finger –
stared into her loving eyes –
my first breath of air.
As a child, always
held her hand to cross the street
and for bedtime prayer.
Sometimes as a teen
I would grasp her hand as we
walked on Naples’ beach.
Elderly, and soon
to pass, she gripped my hands as
though to save herself
as sensation of
falling overtook her, and
she needed grounding.
An honor to hold
dying hands of one who held
my hands in her womb.
© Marie Elena Good, 2020
Pixabay image credit: https://pixabay.com/users/alexandra_koch-621802/
We wouldn’t suspect
the last time we visited
could be our last time.
© Marie Elena Good, 2020
#covidnineteen
#seventeenintwenty
I had kind of promised myself I would not get morbid during this PAD challenge. But here I am. I’ll try to write another poem that sparks a smile or a smirk. 😉
One year ago, today,
we unexpectedly secured
a one-bedroom apartment for Dad,
and moved him into it.
It was just down the hall from Mom and Dad’s place,
where Mom had passed in the wee hours prior.
A back-and-forth blur
of family
furniture
clothes
drums
wood carvings and wood-carving tools
kitchen supplies
medications
wheelchairs
walkers
jazz,
and love,
until one space was empty,
and the other, full
of sunlight and life
that dared each other
shine.
Food followed.
A feast, really,
provided by cousins.
All of us squeezed
‘round a long table
with Dad at one end,
and Mom’s brother and her identical twin
at the other,
between which
more conversation and laughter managed to flow
than tears.
Who could have known
a mere thirty five days later,
the one-bedroom’s sunlight would be called to shine
alone.
© Marie Elena Good, 2019
Patricia A. Fagnano: March 16, 1931 – February 9, 2018
You walk into a room full of people and you ask
who has the best mother
and you can’t see faces in the crowd
for all the raised hands
but mine isn’t raised
it is grasping for Mom’s.
© Marie Elena Good, 2018
pictured words 