My Mother Used To Say The Same Thing.... Poem by RIC BASTASA

at the table i tell you that we are lonely by birth.
you remember a song, a song of death, those who are still here
sing it.

it is an accepted fact that a few days from now you will no longer be with us.
on a sunday afternoon, you will be taking all your things here and on a monday, the table is clean, the cabinets are empty, the cover of your chair will be taken away.

another one shall take it.

i understand the void of leaving. You leave it, or you take it, but it is a void, a space that will not fill itself for years.

we shall sing farewell, you promise you will not cry. you are not a cry baby, you claim to be.

on a tuesday, when you are alone in your house, when you do not have to wake up early, when it rains, where there is no phone call, when all of them are gone to the office, when you will only be with the house cats, while the dogs yelp outside for their meals,

hmm, let us see. I already wrapped a gift for you which is still on your table, waiting that on a wednesday you will come back telling us that you have forgotten your refrigerator magnet, or that stationery, or that stapler perhaps,

let us see, if you can hold on and tell us again that you will not cry.

my mother used to say the same.