SuperNova Afterglow: End Of Days

Lost In The Shuttle

She knitted,
crocheted, tatted
a mound --
gifted, worn,
forgotten,
forlorn.
But, that did not diminish
love
in lotion-soft, leather hands --
in two criss-crossing,
blue-metallic needles
or silver shuttle,
worn, forgotten
in a pile of belongings
boxed,
opened by a man
not her son
at a thrift store
in the winter of 2001.

I still wonder
about dad
who died
later that year.
Worn, forgotten
without the warmth
she could give,
not realizing
it resided
in the hallway
beneath
framed tapestry,
her Last Supper,
in a dresser drawer
packed to brim.


When I thought of everything I have written,
all that pours out from me,
I'm reminded of mom on the couch
with her crafts, watching TV
and not understanding the discipline,
not understanding the dedication to something
that produced so much without
encouragement or appreciation.
Why do we do it?
I'm a bit of a narcissist where mom was not.
Maybe, there's no comparison.
She was the true craftsman while I am lost.