Sunday Mornings

What happens when it's over?

Every Sunday morning, my mom wakes me up at three;

She knows how my alarm clock always disappoints me.

 

She irons my clothes and shines my shoes with care;

For a year and a half I have been wearing the same pair.

 

The smell of eggs and bacon leaks through the door;

Perfect breakfast just for me--what else to ask for?

 

She boils water and pours some into my morning bath;

She knows just how much I hate cold's aftermath.

 

I drift through my patterns like a predictable rhyme;

Her stares are comforting and daunting at the same time.

 

Before I leave the house, she hugs and kisses me;

Her scent is a mixture of cigarette and coffee.

 

Then she goes to bed like any tired woman would,

Sleeping with a smile for the gift of motherhood.

 

--------------------------

 

Three in the morning, I am awakened by a tap.

What I see next greeted me like a slap.

 

Neatly laid out on the desk is my Sunday dress.

Under the chair are shoes gleaming to impress.

 

Aroma of eggs and bacon fills the atmosphere.

I can hear the kettle whistling somewhere near.

 

I catch the feeling there's someone I cannot see.

Then the smell of cigarette and coffee has embraced me.

 

Sunday morning duties compelling her to stay.

My beloved mother died just yesterday...

Author's Note

Original link: http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/arzeljoy_blu/1258903/