No Worries. →[More:]
I am fortunate to have had two mothers in my life. My birth mother, who raised me until I was nine, and my adopted mom, my father's wife, who raised me from then on if I was her own. My adopted mom, I am lucky to say, is still in my life, at age 91. My birth mother, who I maintained contact with all along, through good and bad times, unfortunately died ten years ago this past February. I wrote this poem for her, not long after her death. I can't send her flowers, but I can share her poem. I suppose it's especially sad this year, since my half-brother (same mother, different father) died last month at 49.

No Worries

My mother doesn't need to worry
about empty cigarette packs,
six a.m. treks to the corner store.

Doesn't need to worry
about the crappy boiled bratwurst
Meals-on-Wheels brought her
for lunch, or the fridge filling
with half-pint milk cartons
she planned to trade to Phyllis
for a rhinestone pin
with chipped gold leaf.

The cat doesn't shit in the tub
and the lazy-ass aide doesn't
snore during the soaps,
and the window that was stuck
isn't stuck anymore.

Pink froth bubbling at her nose,
the paramedic report said.
Sitting up, they said.

Probably reaching for the glass of water
on the coffee table, or to change
the channel. I'll never know
what show was on.

Her breathing used to fighten me,
a rasping, constricted, continuous
asthma attack, sucking air
like a gaffed bass.

She wanted to be cremated,
worried about the weight
of all that dirt on top of her,
like a man taking too long.

Ask me how I feel,
and I'll tell you.