Poetry by Vicki Murray
Mother is dying. I go to her.
More than miles separate us.
Years of silence and misunderstanding.
I enter her room. Others leave.
Her speech is unintelligible.
I listen
In a death garble, she anxiously speaks.
I answer her saying, “I understand,
I’m glad you told me. You did the best you could do.
You were a good mom. I love you”.
She understood what I said.
I was left with questions.
Her breathing slows.
Small baby
Bonne
About the Poet
Vicki Murray lives full time in an RV searching for warm weather. She enjoys kayaking, hiking and walking barefoot in the grass. He hands stay messy doing mixed media art. At 70 she began writing poetry.