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The Sundering Is Difficult

Tied as I was

To my mother's apron strings

The advance of life

Went largely unnoticed

The gray that crept into her hair

Disguised as something


Something new

The webs that slowly stole across her face

Giving her character

I failed to see

The bend that began in her lower back

And inched slowly upward

Along her spine

Making her shorter

Even when I became taller than her

My eyes remained closed

To the progress of time

I was tied too close

I turned love-blinded eyes

Away from the times she forgot things

She meant to remember

Names, dates


Or remembered things

She had long ago forgotten

Like being afraid of the dark

Or loving warm tea

I ignored the way her hands shook

Or the aches that snuck into her joints

The way I ignore a passing illness

But the march continued

With each passing day

Week, month

Year, Decade

When she could

No longer keep up on our walks

I slowed my pace

Forcing myself to make nothing of it

And all of those times

She sent me for the mail

She was tired I said

From gardening,

Or cooking,

Or chatting

I let go the thoughts

That she had never been tired before


The strings were bound too tightly

Bonding her and I

I had never seen where I ended

And she began

Even when we were seas apart

She was there

A call

A letter

A thought away

And when I returned

We picked up where we had left off


Trips to the Beach


Restless days spent wandering hills





I am not ready

For her to go

It is the one thing

She has neglected

To prepare me for

But time has finally wizened me up

And non to gently

It reached out and shook me

The morning

I ran to my mother’s house


She did not answer the phone

And found her lying in bed

Weeping for a mother

Long gone

Begging me not to leave her

Realizing she was slowly

Leaving me

So many days now

We no longer walk paths

We once knew so well

Or rush out to meet the swells of water

That crest on our beaches


We sit on the patio

In wicker rocking chair

Specially built for two

And she holds me

And I hold her

And sometimes while brushing fingers

Through each other's hair

We contemplate

A non-to distant future

When apron strings

Will finally


Be undone


© 2005

Artwork Credit: © Rene Emil Bergsma - Mysticism

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