Maybe I'll draw a picture
of daisies and lilacs too –
In vases of white
on the windowsill.
Maybe I'll promise to
paint the walls an amber
red you used to know–
Lord knows we did.
Maybe I'll cry one last tear
from your eyes - you always
loved that. Perhaps a lullaby
before bed to my children.
I remember on Sunday we would get dressed up
for the afternoon service at the parish. Daddy would
flip through the paper to see who'd perished - and
of course you'd cry for all the souls. You had a
good one, Mom.
Maybe I'll buy red roses
to lay by your side - you
hated them but I found them
fitting for your death.
You see, mama, you cared
too much for everything -
your soul was white alright -
Blank - Void of any 'spots'.
No shame, no guilt -
Tears, yes - but fallen for
show - show - maybe
like Sundays when we'd dress up.
I heard you call her name -
Your mother - my grandmother -
she was dead but you thought
one last talk would fix everything.
You heard her whisper in your
grey ears - she said that
she'd be damned if she'd help
you for what she always regretted.
I heard her too, you know.
I also saw the shock on your
face when it all came
crashing down.
Oh mama, how I want to
feel bad as I cry.
But you taught me to
feel as you did - just like our ancestors.
I think that's the price
we pay - but maybe I
can stop this chain -
my own children - Mine.
As you head for the grave
I can't help but thinking mine
should too. I know I
won't be able to help myself from teaching
them the things you did.
Maybe I'll promise to promise
to promise they'll be better than
you would have been. But you
couldn't help it - who could?
Maybe I'll draw a picture
of daisies and lilacs too -
to give to them - mine.
And watch as it all ends.
