Watching

by Angie Weaver

I.

Watching my mother kneel beside a marker,
cold gray concrete etched with her own mother’s name,
birth, death, there is nothing natural here.
She thinks of a brother, wonders how old he may be,
slants of morning sun slicing through leafy oaks,
offending the feel of the day.
This day my mother’s father should be here,
his hand on her shoulder,
his neck bent toward freshly dug earth,
watching a tear slide down her tired cheek.
But my mother is alone in her grief,
a chill in her blood despite the warmth of odd sunshine,
thinking of her father only miles away.

II.

I watch her. She wonders how her own father
could have waited only two days to move in his lover,
how he found space for the happy homemaker
amid the trail of ignorant mourners
bearing flowers, food, and condolences.
I watch her turn her face from her mother’s grave,
unwilling to let her mother see her cry, afraid
truth reflects in tears turned toward bright skies.
Kneeling on grass and gravel, mind dizzy, body rigid,
my mother wonders, who is this woman, who is her son?
Wonders, after thirty silent years, is he my brother,
wonders, does he look like my dad?

-- AW
© Angie Weaver