Posted on Leave a comment

My Mother’s Room

Tucson and last I was here was the day my mother died.

Coming down the steps in the airport I rush back

to that night tumbling into the arms of my three sisters

I’d cried afresh. How would it feel to sleep in her room?

To be here, even, after two years away

two years without our mother?

The room is surprisingly peaceful.

The angel’s foot hovers above the bed

my mother’s Tiffany lamp sits beside

for the reading of a good book.

Whatever becomes of us when we die

has become of her. All is as it must be.

We are all where we must be. We are all safe.

I am safe, after all, in this room.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *