Mondays

Monday, is the day I hate the most of all the weekdays, 'cause it reminds me of you mom, you died on a Monday. Nowadays, I get it together by Friday and then, well its too late, 'cause we have the weekend and then after, Monday. Oh, will this dagger in my heart ever be removed, it is getting sort of heavy and in the way of my living. Why does every sweet older lady with short pixie hair remind me of you and that dagger twists in pain? I recall those last moments beside your bed on a Monday, years ago, waiting. Waiting for your last breath. Thinking about you and how funny you were, such a happy person always, not gloomy like me. Oh but mom you bring out the funny in me, you taught me to laugh at myself, to find the funny in all situations. We would sit at the kitchen table talking and laughing, telling stories of our day. I knew you so well, and I knew you would not want to live a vegetable. When they asked me to turn off life support, I said yes, it was a Monday. It was a Monday, I said farewell. and like a sweet bird you flew straight up past the clouds . . . you live in bird songs _____________________________________ August 3, 2018 Poetry/Haibun/Mondays Copyright Protected, ID 18-1048-200-01 All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.