I remember my mother disappeared slowly.
Once, a bit before she died, whispered that to me.
I hardly noticed, like the sweet poem she wrote,
lies, face down, in the back of my drawer.
She sat silent at our loud-talking dinner table,
dominated by our sons, loquacious mother- in-law.
Now I understand as we become more ghostly,
move slowly into the background of our childrens’ lives,
when visits happen less frequently now,
as if we were furniture, present but never much used.
Sometimes I see my children sitting around the table
laughing and joking, my wife and I passed on.
No one notices as if we never existed.
Once in a while I say hello to my mom’s picture
as I pass her in the hallway. Hello, I smile.
Thanks for inspiring this confessional poem.
Originally published in Cactifur Magazine