Mom Gets In One of My Poems
By Martin Steingesser
“I thought I missed you, darling,” she is saying on the phone.
“No, you woke me. It’s 7:30.”
“Oh-” she says, and then,
after a pause, “I didn’t want to miss you.”
How she won’t be denied, how
I resist. Ninety-two, she’s the kind
of goodness brings trouble, the powerful
voice calling me in
evenings when I was a boy.
Maybe now it’s her way
to know she is okay.
Yesterday she called four times
for help with the date, days of the week
refusing to stay in their places.
“It’s Saturday,” she says, a questioning in her voice, adding,
“I’m so confused, it’s embarrassing.”
I can see her calendar: she’s crossed off Friday
and forgotten, now maybe Saturday, too.
“I’m sorry, I cause so much trouble,” she says, starting to cry.
“It’s okay, Ma, I mix up days, too.
Last week,” I tell her,
“I drove to the wrong job.”
Suddenly she laughs,
and I know it’s okay, for the moment
neither hearing the powerful voice.
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