Friday, January 16, 2009

My Mother's Room (revisited)

She knows me, but I don't know her.
This frail woman who gave me life
is a stranger now
in a pastel prison
with a pink curtain
dividing her room in half.

I bring her hot coffee in a throwaway cup
and she holds it to her lips,
savoring the taste and smell,
smiling,  remembering perhaps
coffee in her own kitchen long ago.

Then she takes me on a journey
into the past, 
recalling people and places,
her dog running to meet her
as she wove her way home from school.
Her bike rides, games,
and marbles--simple pleasures
from a time I've never seen.

It will never be that way again
and neither will she.
Time will strip her
of her muscles and memories.
She knows me, but some day soon
I will be the stranger
she is to me now.


  1. Oh, Kathy. This is absolutely beautiful. I love it.

  2. Thanks, Janna.

    I wrote the poem a while back; added onto it.