My mother Slams The Door
for The First Time On Her Family
It was in-laws, to be fair.
My uncle, who was slow even
before the frost-bitten plague.
A Rhode Island native. Was he
caught on his usual landscaping route,
or did he finally drive by Mom's
in an attempt to mend fences
he'd left to be weeded over
before the apocalypse
forced us to slack on lawn care?
Whatever. It was just as the cold
snap came down. She doesn't say
what happened afterward, but I know.
It was more what she did before
his thrashing hand started to slow,
before my uncle's clumsy bulk started
slumping and sliding, his jaw
the only thing keeping him up.
My mother, with her burden
of a husband and a father
in sickbeds. My sister and I
constantly visiting her like
two hopeless strays without
even the tails between our legs.
She said her wave of her hand
strong and calm, like a priest's ward,
was her first selfish act.
She wondered what she would have done
had her uncle, who quit cutting
her lawn weeks before my father's death,
been alive and expectant of her graces
like a cat too fat to stand on hinds for treats.
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