Salt
Mostly, it is that she’s
here.
After twenty-five years of
adulthood,
I’ve got my mother here in my
living room
for all eternity,
or at least for as much eternity as she has left.
Here.
Telling me again
how she left the Church
when the priest said they must all support Franco.
Here.
Telling me again
what she said to Dr. Cavins in
1955
when Ozell the cleaning lady got
so very sick.
Here. Every day.
Reading aloud the news I have
just finished,
Making jello.
Cooking sausage, because it’s
not dinner without meat.
Salting things.
Lifting her martini to my
father’s portrait:
“One for my baby!”
Grieving him,
with
annotations on his faults.
Too deaf to hear me across
the room,
Too vague to remember last
night’s chapter.
Silently criticizing my ways,
With a sigh, or drawn-in
breath, or pointed glance.
She never complains.
Some day, suddenly or not,
she will be gone.
My gallant little mother,
Homeless but for my home.
Digging my garden because she
lost her own.
Savoring every morsel of joy in
life, and
Salting it.
When she is gone, my living
room will be mine again,
And my eyes will have too
much salt.
JMC
© Jean M. Campbell 1997