Pain

Mum said the pain was bad this week

Scared to know how to ask for help
Mortality beginning to dawn on this 92-year-old woman who has been a constant in my life
“Bury us all” is beginning to look like tempting fate
I’m wondering how long our weekly transatlantic phone calls will continue
The “I love you sign off” that only happens when one of us is scared

That fucking programmed British reserve rearing its ugly head yet again.

So of course I question my life choices
The decision to get as far away as possible as quickly as possible from what feels parochial and provincial
Knowing she would kick my ass for changing a thing
But I still chose to leave and stay away

The guilt is as real as the justifications

How can I not look at futures end?
The singularly after which everything changes
Death is an ugly truth somehow made mundane

I can’t believe I’ve leveraging this moment in a poem

But isn’t this my truth?
How else to deal with it?

_{Image by Sergio Cerrato}