I know you must be crumbling
like a day-old pan dulce.
After all, this is your mother you’re looking at
Painted and powdered like an old diva
In a jeweled music box.
You must be shocked looking down on
My hands, laced with black beads
Which you know I recited over and over
All through my last days.
Afraid, yes, I was, but you know, son,
There wasn't much else I could do.
There wasn't much else I could do.
I could not care for my orchids
Nor even my own hair.
It’s impossible to look your best
When you can’t stand up
By yourself.
And honestly it shocked me
To see your hair so white.
And you know I complained
The room always seemed too bright.
I was so weary, you understand.
Copyright (c) 2012 Ellen McCarthy. All rights reserved.
