In all the years since my mother’s death
she has not once visited me in ghostly form.
I take this as a sign she is at peace
and the hereafter is more like a craft project than a poem.
I know I was not easy to raise.
My rascally brain did not appreciate syntax or logic.
She was like a window shade kept down
to keep a house plant from the sun.
I grew anyway—tall, thin and awkward.
It took befriending a dog for me to fill out in mind and body.
Time treated mother and me the same in spite of our differences.
Our similarities. Our love of mac & cheese.
When I picture her in my mind
I hold her hand when we cross the street.
copyright © 2023 Kenneth P. Gurney