For My Mother

My mother was
Up to her elbows in dish water,
Her voice husky
As she stared out the window at the evening traffic
Or at nothing.

I stood next to her, drying while she washed.

My father gone but a few short years,
It was Christmas
And the memories tugged at her apron strings,
Pulling her back to grief.

I wish I had a basketful of ironing
Just now.

The calm assurance of routine,
Chores worn into her fingers,
Her tired face.

I could say nothing just then
But felt the tears well up.
I put my arm across her shoulders,
For just a moment.

She glanced at me, saw my tears.

Oh, honey. I’m sorry.

Then.

It’s okay Mom.

Though we both knew it wasn't.

But would be someday.