My Mother at Ninety

My Mother at Ninety

I look at my mother
at ninety and she is
beautiful, hair now grey
but eyes still laughing blue

At eighty she was
still young to me
standing straight and tall
against the world

At seventy her adventurous
spirit led her to worlds
unknown with her lively
children, now grown

At sixty I couldn’t
imagine her old,
not Mommy with her
spirit so bold

In her fifties, still
working, loving, hoping
for grandchildren perhaps,
but not caring as long as
her children were happy,
laughing, sharing, having
a life with her

My mother at thirty-six was
beautiful, curly brown hair,
laughing blue eyes, a
warm smile, husband, three girls.
Happy at last

At thirty-six my mother
was dead, laying in a pool of
her own blood, her babies
mangled, her life ripped away.

I imagine my mother at ninety.
I imagine her life not lived.
I imagine what life would have been like.

My mother at ninety was beautiful.


  ~cynaemon, 23 August 2013, revised 20 May 2018, revised 6 May 2019

My mother was killed in a tragic car accident when I was ten years old. My sisters and I survived. My mother and her friend were killed instantly. What would life have been like if she had lived, if she was still alive? I can only imagine.