The fragile oblate of Gold,
Transient in unmindful procession,
Stays my heart with its beauty.
Disconsolate But Loving Mother
I came upon my Mother, as she sat in her rocker,
Disconsolate and alone, holding a photograph
Of her dead, infant daughter,
With a tear on her cheek that dear Mother.
She, my Mother, had not noticed me.
And I caught the noble melancholy of her reverie.
She beheld Janice, my sister, and saw what I saw;
An infant, less than year, who died without protest,
Who left silently with eyes of child beauty.
She beheld Janice and wept the tears that only mothers know.
She made no sound, no movement, no sob;
Whatever occured was within her, and it remained there.
It was her sad and painful treasure.
It was the only way she could deal with the death of Janice, my sister.
My mother was capable of expressing openly and deeply a full range of emotions.
But not in her mourning of dear sister Janice.
This she enduured alone and silently. Her soul held an altar
Wherein she knelt and prayed for her dead, lovely daughter.
Her orisons were never heard outside the chapel of her heart,
Alone and silently for years.
I know she was the Mother of Janice and me.
As she did for Sister, she would do for me.
She would match tear for tear; and all the love for Janice
She would have for me.
Janice and I were her children; and I must say for Janice and brother me
She was our Mother.
Copyright © 1999 by John Faragher
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