Mom

Mom does not know who I am. She may recognize my voice... vaguely. And she may sense that we have a certain bond. But Mom does not know who I am.

I struggle to speak with her when Dad insists we talk over the phone. I know why he does this... why he puts her on the phone with me. But Mom does not know who I am. And I don't like hearing the tenor of her voice as she puzzles it out and I try to subtly remind her... hinting around the edges. I don't like to hear her struggle. And I am the source of her anxiety.

I am your son. And I love you, My Mother. Memories of me may dim for now. And that is fine. I know who I am. And I know who you are. And my most loving Mother... I will be with you again.

And you will say, "Matthew. A penny for your thoughts." And we will talk. I will say, "Thank you, Mom, for having me when you were so ill."

And we will know one another. You with your playful eyes. With that spark of life and brightest of smiles. Like a Mother knows her child. And a child knows his Mother.

I love you, Mother.