She sits on her love seat,
morning sun dancing across the floor
Her aged fingers grip each other,
hands holding hands – filling the space where his hands no longer hold her
She’ll ask you to set the table,
she’ll say please don’t make a fuss for your mother, she works so hard for you girls
She’ll ask you to come sit next to her on the davenport
and together you’ll watch the shows she usually watches by herself
She’ll ask you to go warm the bed for her
She’ll add ‘kins’ after she says your name
She won’t tell you the depth of her grief outright, but you’ll feel it when she says
just be glad you have someone to give that Valentine’s Day card to. You’ll never realize how lucky you are until you no longer can give him cards
and you’ll know you never want to feel that kind of pain, that kind of sadness.
She’ll never fill your head with stories of how amazing their love was, either.
She’ll never put their love on a pedestal to be idealized…
instead she’ll tell you about how they were equals, how they worked side-by-side, he made sure everyone knew she wasn’t his secretary, she was his partner.
And in the morning when it’s time for you go home, she won’t make a fuss
She’ll ask you to make sure you don’t forget anything
do you need anything for the road?
She’ll remind you to be good and remember your mother works so hard for you girls.
She’ll let you know she will say a prayer to St. Christopher for you all, but please don’t forget to call when you get home safe
And as you load the car and start to pull away
She’ll be in the window waving, smiling
©2017 erin hoffman – all rights reserved