Me Ma'

Me Ma' is slipping from my life

the past rushing behind those eyes

watery blue in the failing light.

And my Irish has gone with her.

The lace curtains, the novena candle

Her brothers singing the Ave in

choir loft, the Lachine spinster aunts.

Who will I tease about the troop 

shows? Or ask aboutthe wartime

telegram saying Burke was gone?

She was raised by French nuns, 

she hated them for beating her.

Now she greets the Filipino nurse

with a look of mad mischief.

On good days she knows my name

when I show her wedding photos.

On others we watch the birds

that fly past her window garden.

She shows me the women she hates.

And the men that she likes. But

the trappings have now failed her.

The sad music of The Chieftains, 

the brandy snifter in her purse

in case of dire emergencies. 

The weathered photo of her father 

reading the Montreal Herald in 1937.

So I close the door quietly behind

while she watches golf on the TV.

The past, I see, is now a distant shore

where I can visit, alas, no more.