A POEM INSPIRED BY MY MOTHER’S BROKEN PELVIS & A HYMN
Advent
Hanging on to hope by our fingernails
This morning, the Monday
after Thanksgiving,
I finally connected with my brother regarding
Mama’s fall and fracture — whether,
when she leaves rehab, she can return home.
Or will Mama agree that, yes, now
it is time
to move to assisted living?
An exile dreaded
since visiting her beau, John,
at “one of those awful places.”
Where he cried
and she fled
and soon thereafter he died alone –
a disciple of Death’s dark, stark, inevitable advent.
Captive, banished
by ingrate children caring only for an inheritance.
Or so Mama professes.
After the call, I took a nap — rejoicing
in the opportunity to reboot
within what I learned yesterday
while nodding off in the church choir stall
and pondering
what on earth, what on earth, what on earth,
what the bloody hell was I thinking,
taking on yet another obligation?
