Angels and Grown-ups
Left alone on Mama’s bed,
in Mama’s room –
still heard Grandmother’s feet –
she wore black tied shoes
and her feet danced above my head –
I talked to God – on Mama’s
bed – my tears moistened
clean white sheets – as my hands
pushed a feather pillow
far away from me – it was God
I needed –
I had just turned seven and I knew
I could not be alone – as I stretched
my arms grabbing at a pillow
and sobbed – in a silent room.
I pictured her red velvet couch,
old – worn – in her hand’s old
knitting needles – heard them
clang – as her glasses would keep
falling from her nose, and she called
Her lip’s thin because they were – Irish.
I begged to go before you, but
You weren’t in heaven then – and
Perhaps God never listened to little
Girls, who were frightened by old
fur coats. I never wanted to watch
anyone die – no one was aloud, to die
while I was alive, I told God that.
But, he must have had other plans,
they told me way back when –
God has plans for all of us.
Now it’s the month of March,
And always the anniversary of your
Death – and your father’s, your
Brothers, and so on and so forth –
You said “March is a bad month,
Except for Saint Patrick’s Day,”
And we celebrate that for you. . .
I have one question for you,
Mama – and I know you live
around these parts quite often –
and I don’t want you to move.
But, do you think if I ask God one
more favor – one tiny favor – if I
ask him to let me live for forty
more years would he listen to
me now that I am older?
Oh, bless you Mama – for you have
never gone too far.