my mother died on a Thursday
     a Thursday, just a Thursday
not a holiday or a holy day
     just a Thursday
when she died

56, for 10
days, just 56 and one
mighty strong woman at that
8 days past my birthday
she died on Thursday
when I least expected

she’d had a stroke, a terrible stroke
two days before my wedding
a terrible stroke
then wheelchairs and walkers
blood work and doctors
a slur in her speech
from a terrible stroke

5 months then
of struggle and strain
a family renewed by her struggle
and strain
restored and rebuilt
5 months of
thinking things would be
ok

she held my hand
    on Thursday, when I least expected
emergency surgery and recovery time
but she recovered fine
    until that Thursday
when she said she was scared
I told her she would be fine
    I believed it
        I did
I really did

but so fast, too fast for my mind to catch up
there were doctors
and nurses
and fear and
    a chaplain and
a quiet room
where I held her hand
    and said things, not enough
things, but the important ones
the words that matter
in the quiet room

she left me there
alone with my boiling tears
    one fell to her hand
as I kissed it
        in the quiet room
where she left me alone
to go and find my father and hers
    and her mother, who I barely knew
she left me there
in the quiet room

and part of me remains

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Copyright 2007, J. Patrick Lemarr.

From the Author: On May 30th, just 10 days after my mom turned 56, she passed away. I've found it difficult to talk much about my feelings, but early one morning, in insomnia's grip, I wrote this piece. 

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