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Mother a Month Gone
by Star Coulbrooke

You Write, I miss it too,
miss picking up the phone
to tell her things I could not
share with anyone else,
little anecdotes about my dogs
or everyday antics
with cats and wild birds
or that strange bug
I saw on the pomegranate.

Like mine, your afternoons
and mornings.

Yesterday I planted pansies
for the cemetery,
pots of color like the ones
she started every April,
twelve a year, memorials
to decorate the double row
of family graves.
This year, a dozen plus one.

I picture her there
between husband and son.

Your letter came today,
reminding me of mornings
in May, meadowlarks
on a grassy hill, and
three matching gravestones
where grandchildren play
among rows of relatives
decked in bright pansies.

Like a smile with an ache,
our missing her.


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