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Mother’s Day
by Catherine Chandler

On Sunday evening after the party ends
and family have gone, you ache to say
how you can’t bear this gathering each May.
Your thoughtful husband usually sends
a rose bouquet, but changed his mind this year:
a special gift, it makes your finger shine
with emerald and ruby. Too much wine,
he banters as he wipes away your tear.

But you and I know, Mother, what he can’t –
your April foolishness; how bit by bit
they snipped me out of you, “took care of it”;
how through the years I’ve been your confidante,
the reason for this night’s unraveling –
the garnet missing from the mother’s ring.

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