Yet No Less Happy
On my birthday I vacuum my study then get
carried away, sweep through the bedroom,
bathroom. I drink an extra cup of coffee,
praise the May sky after the weekend’s steady
rain, keep an eye out for house finches aflutter
at the window feeder, gorging themselves
on hot blend seed. Soon my mother’s words come
to mind out of nowhere—don’t be sad. I try
to recall unasked questions. It’s taken ten
years to see how she remains a mystery, never
asked about children, will never know I wish
I’d known sooner to have them. Placing
my hand on the kitchen table where hers might
have rested, ringed and veined, I watch the
bearded irises purpling in the sun and
a squirrel scrabbling the redbud. There’s a Boston
cream pie on the counter. Will this be enough?
This—I want to tell her a mother never dies.
