Before I was born, letters
between Mom and Dad
showed that Blackie was a sickly pup,
maybe worms. She always came home
from the vet. Until that day. I knew
she wasn’t coming back.
Behind the house, Dad dug her grave.
I have memories of Mom:
hitting the softball
over everyone’s head,
helping me with the Gobi Desert
presentation for school,
later, at the rehab center, her withered body
dressed in her favorite maroon sweatshirt,
feeding-tube hanging out from under
the hem. We celebrated Christmas:
her children, grandchildren,
husband of 60 years
at her bedside.
I knew it would be the last.
At Weatherford’s, I received
her mahogany box of ashes.
Up the River
Albany Poets
8th Issue
