On a pretty Sunday I drove past the cemetery

Pondering how much sorrow a soul can carry

Especially on Mother’s Day

Somewhere someone loses their mom in a horrible way

The paper will say so 

There were many cars parked on the side streets

Among the tombstones and the crepe myrtle trees

Flowers in their hands, flowers in my trunk

How much of it’s discrimination, divine intervention, or luck

That your mom is still here

I get to my parents’ house

Deep down in my heart there’s fear

That there’s not a lot of these trips left

I hand my mom the stems with colored petals

She pours us tea from the kettle

Her yellow sweater matches the marigolds

I’ve known her for 35 years

The sunlight streams in from the living room window

Her hair is mostly gray

How we’ve watched each other grow

I watch her knobby fingers, how she still moves well

Did she watch her mother

I feel my heart swell

She is lovely, more so than the best bouquet

She chose me

On a pretty Mother’s Day

I can’t help but drive past it and think about the grave

Full of mothers

All who made a way

Mothering is a form of dying