My mother's card came first.
The one from my insurance agent
didn't count, regardless of its
real signatures from office staff.
Of course, hers had a religious theme:
the blessing that was my birth, etc.
She penned a script novella
in the margins true to form
and included several pictures
from our last fun time with Grandma.
There were some keepers in there, ones
I hadn't seen til then, the three of us
with smiles that no sadness could repel.
"Thanks, those are great photos,"
I told her on the phone.
"She's been gone now for one hundred
and thirty-nine days," she sighed.
It broke my heart.
She's counting.
And I'll someday know the sorrow
of not having parents left.
We take death as it comes:
the final part of life.
We try to fit the splinters
back together when they're gone.
Like warriors on horseback
we move on counting coup
in the form of days remembered
that no Man in Black can have.
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