My Mother Has Grown Absent-Minded in Death
My mother has grown absent-minded in death.
Forgetful of her position as recollected laughter,
as the memory of a half-forgotten children's tune
warbled out the kitchen window above a sink
never devoid of dishes, as someone over whom
to grow moist-eyed at holiday family gatherings,
she comes for casual, unexpected visits.
For years after cancer claimed her, I wrote
biweekly letters and puzzled over postage rates to
that other, darker kingdom.
Now, restored to the youth in which I never knew her,
she floats in at will, her Titian hair
marcelled tightly to her tilting head, an
unself-conscious smile lighting her sherry eyes.
Once, inexplicably, she had in attendance
a then still-living television actor of Greek descent.
When I took her aside and reminded her
that she was married, and dead,
it was I, not she, who was
embarrassed.
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