We sit at the yellow, sunshine
for our meals. I can remember
that my mother
and I drank coffee and laughed.
Sundays were especially good
for a memorial or two.

Dad has been dead for ten years
or more, and we still speak
as if he is in the living room
watching his favorite wrestler,
Dick the Bruiser
or the Roddy of Rawhide.

As the months rushed by, she sat
more at the table
coffee in a stained cup, the design
worn with sagging color.
The conversation was less.
The tremor of her voice
became more acute.

The doctor had said part
was age, and the other was her
lessened will to live.
I already knew this from the words
and the way she said them.

The night she had her stroke,
going home was not an option,
it took her two days to die.
My kids and I talked to her–
One is trying to convince her to muster up,
and the others crying, already
knowing the loss.

As for me,
I wanted her to be at peace
But it was so unreal.
It wasn’t happening to her; she
was the invincible farmer, my mother.

Her words would be sorely missed.
She wasn’t a hugger,
But I hugged her a final goodbye.
Tell Dad I love him.