For Mom

My mother was

Up to her elbows in dish water,

Her voice husky

As she stared out the window at the evening traffic

Or at nothing.

I stood next to her, drying while she washed.

My father gone but a few short years,

It was Christmas

And the memories tugged at her apron strings,

Pulling her back to grief.

"I wish I had a basketful of ironing

Just now."

The calm assurance of routine,

Chores worn into her fingers,

Her tired face.

I could say nothing just then

But felt the tears well up.

I put my arm across her shoulders,

For just a moment.

She glanced at me, saw my tears.

"Oh, honey. I'm sorry."

Then.

"It's okay Mom."

Though we both knew it wasn't.

But would be someday.