Rainfall. Temperatures plummet below fifty degrees F, from almost seventy yesterday. Every so often, leaves rustle and the wind chimes sound. We recover from hosting thirty of our family for Frankie’s confirmation barbeque. A quiet day resting at home is the Mother’s Day present Mira wants most this year.
wet fire pit
the last ambers
extinguished
A bittersweet Mother’s Day this year. I’m more than happy to relax at home, too. But today marks the third anniversary of my mother’s death. Considering she passed four days after Mother’s day in 2016, it was only a matter of time before this happened.
daffodil petals
a shadow across
her engraved name
The rain falls harder now. I feel the dull ache of loss stir. Grief waxes and wanes, most days. But the loss, now, is a scar that mildly throbs. Many people say it gets better with time, but they are wrong. I adapt, surfing each wave of sorrow as it comes, with a dread proficiency that comes with practice.
This bittersweet Mother’s Day is just another such opportunity.
raindrops
clinging to their stems
rhododendrons
for Poets United’s Poetry Pantry #479
Frank J. Tassone 
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