Oatmeal Sunday Morning
I feigned taking a bite
attempting, of course, to convince her
oatmeal was yummy, "good for her"
I made rhymes of moons
oats and boats,
little girls wearing coats
She smiled, but refused to take a bite
as she had nearly every day now
I turned to reach a paper towel
to mop up the inevitable drips caught in the palm of my hand
spoons and cupped hands
they are the same thing, right?
I never heard a death rattle
of course, these old ears of mine...
The hospice nurse gently closed her eyes.
I said, "Goodbye Mother,"
and wondered how it had happened so quickly,
those sixty-nine years we shared.
Copyright © lim'rik flats | Year Posted 2017