Advice to My Father

What advice could I give you after all? You
who called my mother 'bride'. 'My bride'. Always.
And swirled her around the dance floor of whatever
ballroom you two found. God, how you loved to dance.

You told me after she died (I never told you I thought you
would die first) that you didn't want to live alone and would look
for another although there could be no other, no other bride of 52 years.
I didn't know if you would survive her loss, you who never even made a

sandwich. My mother devoted her life to you, to care of you. Always. And she
told me that was the way of marriage, but had that certain look in her eye that told
me the deeper truth, the one I really held to (I never told you I think she wanted me to
hold onto that deeper truth). So you survived, thrived really, and went off into your next

life. You found another just as devoted to you. How did you do that at 85? Who tells me she
takes care of you. Proud. Tells me this is the way of marriage, but lacks that look in her eye, believes that and holds no deeper truth. God, how you love to dance. Another who
loves to dance and care for you, and devote her life to you (I never told you

I wanted my mother to live, grieved when she died and longed to have
her here longer,to see me know her deeper truth, and her grand-
daughter know her deeper truth, and see her great grands,
and ask about them, about everything they do, know,

learn and want and, well, never mind). You can really
pick them, at any age. I mean that. What advice can
I give such a man? It's just that I miss my mother,
your bride, with a longing that takes my breath

away still. Even as I write this I can't breathe,
I cry for her, and I don't know how to
tell you that, much less give you advice.
I'm not the one to give you advice.
I'm still back there missing her.



This was in response to a post by Chris Galford over at dVerse Poets Pub entitled: Pretzels and Bullfights: Advice to an Old Man and is offered  for Open Link Night hosted by Hedgewitch (Joy Ann Jones) one of my favorite poets in our blogosphere.

Rain

She sat at the window in the straight back chair
and stared out. Just that image remains.
She wore her gray sweater and plaid skirt, her hands lost
in the deep pleats. I saw her face from the side and the rain just beyond
as it poured down the window pane.
"What are you looking at?" I asked.
"Oh, nothing." she answered.
I knew somehow, young as I was,
not to ask more questions, knew there was a truer
answer than "nothing", although
I couldn't know what it might be. She seemed so
far away, her stillness absolute, the rain constant.
At levels below words the rain drummed answers.


This was posted in response to a prompt about weather from Stu McPherson at dVerse Poets.

What Choice You Had

What Choice You Had

"Come to my room, help me 

choose the dress I'll be buried in.

Is it too morbid of me to ask you?"

Your first choice a fuchsia dress

silk, long sleeved, belted.

"Is it too garish for a funeral?"

You decided,

at your funeral you would wear

what you wanted,

bright color such a deliberate

counterpoint to your fading.

Final statement

by a legend of stylish dressing.

"Perfect choice, Mom."

"Guess what," you whispered, "it's a size 10!

I've always wanted to wear a size 10."

We laughed at your perverse

pleasure - loss of weight

even if it's to cancer, size 10

even if it's in your casket.

It had its intended effect.

Mourners remarked on how 

beautiful your dress was, 

how so like you.

                                                        

                                                                                        Mary Harvey Warren

in loving memory of Mary McLellan Harvey

I posted this poem  two years ago for a 100 word challenge. This is its full version posted in response to Victoria Slaotto's prompt at dVerse Poets entitled Meeting the Bar: Writing Emotion.
Check out this great resource blog for poets which contains both information and prompts.