I sometimes feel her pressing on my right side.
Why the right? She lingers there.
She leaves me pennies
That appear out of nowhere
When I’ve earned an angel wing.
I dreaded her birthday, the first
Since she left.
No cake or cards, no gifts.
Coming up… memories of her end of days.
That call.
Her body fighting her,
We watched.
We rallied for her,
Held her close,
Fed her,
Combed her hair.
Gregorian chants
Took her in and out of her life.
She spoke the language of angels.
How they argued,
Divine negotiation with intonation
And syllables.
Her voice wasn’t hers at all.
Is this how it goes?
And terror gripped her as she faced
The indescribable,
Pushing it away with such force,
We thought
This is it.
Debate and battle gave way more ultimately
To stillness and surrender.
Copyright © 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard
Image: My Mother
