December 2, 2000

 9:30 pm

If my mother were my age, which she never was 

If she were still here, which she isn’t,

And if we talked to each other, which we still can do

What would we say?

Even now sometimes, in the middle of the night

Or the break of day, I imagine her near me.

Cozy in my bed, in a half reverie

I know she is there, the mood is familiar

Warm, snug, safe and secure,

Half way between dreams and fantasy

I listen carefully, hoping that she’ll tell me something

Now that I’m old enough to listen.

“I’m not surprised at the way you live your life.

I’m only surprised it’s taken you so long to be yourself.

Go ahead, keep searching, keep looking, 

Be happy with David, you deserve it, my pet!”

Maybe, you’d tell me stories now about the family,

What did you know about the suicide of your uncle?

What did you think of your father? And uncle Ralph?