I was stumbling along looking for a poetic theme this morning when my mother came to mind. She often comes to mind. So many happy memories, but then, there are others.
So vacantly her day passes.
Idle thoughts trip by so fast
they cannot be grasped.
Normal chores? Forgotten.
Grimly, she grasps the newspaper,
not to read, but for the date:
a reminder, printed there in the corner.
Sunday. That’s the day that . . . ?
Something happens on Sundays.
Oh! Visitors come, and here they are.
I wonder who they are, and why they call me Mom.
This was a good day. Something wonderful happened.
If I could only remember.
Oh, look. It’s Sunday. Something happens on Sundays.