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Why is that Mom? Even in death I feel your command, rooted in this chair beside your casket...hesitant to leave. Why is that Mom? In caverns of memory reside your hurtful words, attempts for approval piled inside my heart. Verbal flaying easily retrived, lurking in dark places never beyond reach. I remember to remember reprimands, flowing as rivers from my nonage to your swan song. I am your only child. Varied as frost from fire, emulation an aspiration I never achieved. Chameleon moods confound me. My last words "I love you." Your only reply "I know you do." Denied love even in your demise. Why is that Mom? |
Additional Notes:
My mother always reminded me of this nursery rhymn..."There was a little
girl who had a little curl right in the middle of her forehead...when she
was good she was very very good and when she was bad she was horrid."
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