Waiting

Waiting

When the guy in the hairpiece and the dark suit
asks me if I want to see my mother
as she lies in a back room, waiting,

I remember her, for some reason,
in a white swimsuit, on a yellow towel

on the sand at Crystal Lake,
pregnant with my sister,
waiting for me to finish examining
the sleek fuselage of a minnow,

the first dead thing I had ever seen,
before we went back to the cottage for lunch.

I remember her waiting up for my father
to come home from God knows where
in a Yellow Cab at 2 a.m.,

and waiting for me in the school parking lot
in our rusted blue station wagon
when whatever it was I was practicing for ran late.

I remember her, shoulders thrown back,
waiting in the unemployment line,
waiting for me to call, waiting for the sweet release

in the second glass of wine
after a long day working at the convalescent hospital
where everyone was waiting to die.

And I remember her waiting for me
at the airport when I got back from Japan,
waiting for everything to be all right,

waiting for her biopsy results.
Waiting.

But when the guy in his ridiculous hairpiece
asks me if I’d like to go back there
and be with her in that room where she lies

waiting to be cremated, I say No
thank you, and turn and walk out
onto the sunny street to join the crowd

hustling down the sidewalk,
and I look up at the beautiful white clouds
suspended above the city,

leaving her to wait in that room alone,
for which I will not be forgiven.

Copyright by George Bilgere

Poems from Haywire
Winner of the 2006 May Swenson Poetry Award (through the Utah State University Press) Posted over on the Bilgere Home Page