Mother’s Day
The dog is my shadow and I fear his loss. My loss.
I cook for him daily, in hope of retaining him.
Each regret is a thread woven around the oak’s branches.
Each day lived is one less to live.
Soon the rabbits will be safe, and the squirrels.
As if they were not. One morning
I’ll greet an empty space and walk alone,
toss the ball into the yard, where it will remain.
It is Mother’s Day.
Why did I not weep at my mother’s grave?
I unravel the threads and place them around the dog.
The wind carries them aloft.
“Mother’s Day” was published in The Lake in July 2016, and last appeared here in May 2019.
O at the Edges 
So beautifully poignant Robert.
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It is a day for memories, both old and yet to be.
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Yes, and this is truly lovely.
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The memories remain to keep us company till the day it is our time to go.
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They certainly do!
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Great post 😁
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Thank you very much!
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I like the reading … nicely done with the pauses.
While on the melancholy side, this is a great Mother’s Day piece reminding that mothers cannot be assumed always-available. Regrets for unexpressed later inevitable. This gives license to untangle and release pent-up regrets. (I’m visualizing the helium heart- shaped balloon with streamers danging, tangling beneath it … delivered to the house across the street this morning … we watched, amused, as the recipient wrangled the thing through her front door … thinking I’d’ve let it go, float upward, away … snap a photo from below …)
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Oh, to be that balloon!
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Thank you, Robert. Just what I needed. I know well the ash heap of regrets when it comes to a Mama (and also to a Papa). Huh. Maybe time to dig out a CD of Mama Cass songs.:)
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I’m so pleased it resonated with you, Susan. Thank you.
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