anomaly

I start today with a surface memory from the morning you passed.

I was supposed to get blood work. 

I was three weeks past my weekly draw.

The nurse called with ‘come in, today.’

The ‘had I gone’ doesn’t exist.

I can’t what if.

I won’t what if.

I was there

beside you

exactly where and when 

you left. 

Five years later on the hour

I am here writing words to keep you.

The truth is I was thirtysomething 

and I held your hand, often.

I didn’t think much of it, then.

I realize now what is rare.

When I was nineteen,

you held your hands above your head and danced

in a doorway in a bathrobe in a hotel in Florida.

Your grace taught me freedom.

Breastfed beyond two,

(I was the last child 

to be held and understood)

I thought I was the anomaly.

You carried twelve

delivered all naturally

loved all unconditionally 

and lived gentle into eighty,

leaving stories behind

of lives changed and healed.

Mother, you are the anomaly.