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Without Tears
I knew my mother was dying
when she returned from the hospital
and sat, heavy in the armchair
woolen shawl covering the colostomy bag
My father had sent me away from home
It would be nice if you could stay she said
but her man’s decision was god
the boy goes back to work
I was nineteen, she forty-nine
he was stronger than the both of us
Later, returning on a shivery aircraft
her death hanging in the air like mist
he was waiting, this diminutive man
with my uncle, who he had always scorned,
propping him up and all he could say was
it’s my fault
He wrote books to save the world
on visits he would force me to listen
no one ever read them
he died at five in the morning
alone in his room, they called me
I rearranged the covers, closed his eyes
his uncompleted books and papers everywhere
and in his trouser pocket a wad of bills
more than I had ever held, it felt so good
Still, there is a part of him that I miss
thirty years later as I explain to him
look this is a computer, this a cellphone
perhaps to show him something I have written
to hear him say I’m proud of you. Only once
© Johnmichael Simon
2008
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