The Day

There was this one day. Before I knew it was one of the final days, but after I began to think it might be. My mom was confined to her bed, and we all thought she’d be up again. I’d come home to San Francisco from Los Angeles, a little drunk because I hate to fly, and popped into her room around 9 o’clock at night. I remember her laughing because I burped.

 

But that’s not the day.

 

It was the next one.

 

I spent most of the hours in bed with her, both of us holding back apologies from a life of talking backs and imagined hurts.

 

Everyone hoped we’d say sorry.

 

Instead I made her laugh more, and wrote down who would get what, just in case.

 

She wanted me to have her pearls.

 

Later that night, she asked for a sip of red wine in a crystal goblet. I made her minestrone too, hoping she’d eat some.

 

I cleaned her bed pan.

 

I never said sorry, but she knew, didn’t she.

 

That would be the day.

 

Because I live it 1,000 times without her.

 

And I’d like to have her there, one more time and always.

 

{This is in response to today’s PROMPTuesday.}