Mom

My mom hated this picture, 

the fat billowing from her suit straps.

But --and -- it has always been one of my favorites.

The way she is looking at Sarah, 

the way Sarah is looking back. 

Love. What else could you call it? 

I miss my mother.  I miss her now, 

as my life turns to the right, 

into the last few decades. 

I want to know what she would advise me, 

whether I should stay or go, 

move forward in hope or hold the party line.  

I want to read her words of assurance, 

that it will all be okay. 

I will not live alone, die alone, 

struggle alone.  

I want to see her laugh just one more time, 

her head thrown back. 

I want one more hug, 

to be pulled sufficatingly to her breasts. 

I want her to cry with me in a few months, 

when I lose my uterus, my eggs. 

The grandchildren I never gave her, 

the babies she never swam with. 

I want her to hold my hand through that small death, 

the same way I cradled hers when she left us.