I Was Weary, You Understand

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.

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.