Daniel's poem about my mother

Rhythm

It’s a shock to see her like this:

Chair-bound. Blanket-wrapped.

Unable to turn to greet me,

To welcome me into her home.

My heart beats once –

A silence: something stricken –

Twice, and I step into view.

My mind races, back-

Pedaling, wildly grasping

Toward the past, the last

Time we met; the first time.

I can’t even remember the color

Of her hair then (now it’s orange,

Which is, I think, a change),

But I do remember her presence:

Strong. Serene.

Articulate and capable.

Serenity remains.

My heart’s in free fall

But she holds me still

With calm and smiling eyes

A very

Slowly,

Speaks.

Her tempo is a change.

Allegro ma non troppo,

The speed of Wilde and wit,

Has settled into a haunting

Largo,

And in shame I recognize it

As the speed, the speech

Of those whom I ignore,

Of those whom I dismiss

As babblers, fools

With nothing great to say

Because it takes

Me

Too much effort to listen.

I lose a word now and

Then, I respond cheerfully,

Honestly. She tells me of her frustrations.

Most have to do with social,

Not personal injustice,

Which is probably why

She is the top fundraiser for ALS statewide.

She chooses words carefully,

And doles them out, or gives them,

And if they take some unwrapping,

It is the least,

The very least,

That I can do.

Before long I am on my way,

Accelerating down the freeway

At 70 mph.

But before I go I see

A husband, supporter, helping her to stand,

A son, taking time to sit beside her,

A daughter, talking as fast as ever,

Talking with her mom exactly as before,

And some tupperware from the neighbors,

Full of watermelon.

The symphony continues:

Sweet, and slow.