Sunday Mornings

10/29/13

 

 

Every Sunday morning, my mom wakes me up at three;

She knows how my alarm clock always disappoints me.

 

She irons my clothes and shines my shoes with care;

For a year and a half I have been wearing the same pair.

 

The smell of eggs and bacon leaks through the door;

Perfect breakfast just for me--what else to ask for?

 

She boils water and pours some into my morning bath;

She knows just how much I hate cold's aftermath.

 

I drift through my patterns like a predictable rhyme;

Her stares are comforting and daunting at the same time.

 

Before I leave the house, she hugs and kisses me;

Her scent is a mixture of cigarette and coffee.

 

Then she goes to bed like any tired woman would,

Sleeping with a smile for the gift of motherhood.

 

--------------------------

 

Three in the morning, I am awakened by a tap.

What I see next greeted me like a slap.

 

Neatly laid out on the desk is my Sunday dress.

Under the chair are shoes gleaming to impress.

 

Aroma of eggs and bacon fills the atmosphere.

I can hear the kettle whistling somewhere near.

 

I catch the feeling there's someone I cannot see.

Then the smell of cigarette and coffee has embraced me.

 

Sunday morning duties compelling her to stay.

My beloved mother died just yesterday...

 

Author's Note

Don't tell my mother I "killed" her in this poem. She might resign from her maternal tasks on Sunday mornings. :)

Reviews

[Catherine Frain]

A lovely poem to show a mother's relationship to her daughter, and the repeated steps of every Sunday mornin'. the light friendly tone at the start changing to the dark serious tone at the end gave a big impact, that most readers would expect from a poem.

[WithLoveandLoss.]

Love your author's note (your secret's safe with me!). Such an vivid potrayl of a mother-daughter relationship, then thrusted into darkness of death. I enjoyed!

[Anand Sehgal]

A teasing drama. loved your write :)

[Ees]

one little typo:
"She boils water and pour some into my morning bath;"- should be either "to pour" or "and pours"

This is the most lovely poem. I can smell the cigarettes and coffee and the eggs and bacon and feel the sunday morning feel.

How lucky you are to have that, to have a mother to make sundays special in that way!!!

Beautifully written. I enjoyed this poem completely!

[Azure Montessa (Blue)]

Hey, you have meticulous eyes! I didn't notice that error. I'll correct it rightaway. Thank you! :)

[Ees]

It is always harder to see your own errors because you know what you meant to write and it tricks your eyes or something. I miss my own all of the time!

[zaneybear]

This gave me such chills! I wasn't expecting te ending at all, sorry for your loss if you really have went theough the pain of losing your mother but I'm glad you found a great way to express it. And so beautifully too.

[Brian Angeles]

a true dramatic irony. I like it

[Tam Warink]

A poem to fantasize death; perhaps to attempt at preparation for what seems an inevitable upheaval or recognize those memorable contributions and lament a future loss. I suppose this works for some - others not so much. What was the inspiration, the message, the purpose?

[Dayran]

A dream within an imagination ... and an imagination in a poem ... about a life that's in art ... or is it art imitating life? New directions certainly.

[Jack...]

It sounds like you have a wonderful mother, not everyone is that fortunate. Your secret is safe with me

[icelandicblue]

This was so unexpected and therefore it really grabbed the reader. I sucked in my breath when I read the second part. The pictures you paint of ordinary images infused with love and beauty create a very dramatic poem.