Mourning Rays

Most of the time, I sleep through the mourning.
Till it comes horning in
with the blast
of noon day rays at my window.

I feel for my mother,
for what we could never have.
Mourning the lost hours
spent on
“what your problem is is you don’t—”
and
“no one else is going to put up with your—”

My best hour with you, Mom,
was when we sat holding hands
on the bed at Rosewood.
You told me how much you had
begun to appreciate me
because I could be still,
and my brother never seemed to stop talking.
Then we sat,
quietly as two Quakers
as I basked in being near you.
It was enough.

And now, there are so many questions
I’d like to ask you.
So many things about your
past life
I’d like to know.