I often worried that when the call came, I’d be at work

But the afternoon my mother dies, I am resting

at home after lunch. So I tell myself to snap out of it

And later as we prepare my mother, I think 

this is the only time I will see her like this, because

she looks so peaceful. More at peace than when she sat

reading or listening to The Magic Flute on the couch,

the fatigue of suffering wiped from her face and mouth,

corners turned up. Stillness etched upon the eyes,

eyes that had been restless for days. And when I am done

I run my palm over her chin, cup the face and tell her

That I am done. That she could go in peace, to be 

whoever she wanted to be, she was released 

from being a mother to a difficult girl. I know 

she was lonely and sad; I was not the child

she wished she had. And in my own way I cared,

I guess. But in the afternoon my mother dies, 

There is nothing lonely about her cremation. 

Nothing lonely about her leaving or waiting her turn, 

“See,” I whispered in her ear, “everyone is here”.