NaPoWriMo—Day 14
You Mourned and Rued the Day
you committed Mom to the memory facility,
as if anything could’ve been done. Mom shuffling
about the house bedecked in mismatched slippers,
that smelly-pink-tattered robe, lipstick drawn
around her mouth. It was as if she remembered
what she’d instructed me—a woman never goes out
without wearing lipstick, hence why my lips are rimmed
Fresh Moroccan before leaving the house.
But that’s not why you mourned depositing
Mom in the home. You mourned marriage-life decisions,
growing up practical, selfish perhaps, an only-child.
It was Mom’s vehement anger you mourned,
tears you spilled, night after her death,
where you confessed, “I should’ve said yes,
when she begged to enroll as an adult in college.
You mourned and rued the day you committed Mom
to the memory facility. Arrogant with the brains
God gave you, smarts that made you consider you knew
more than others, yet smart enough to lock up Mom,
and die silently regretting the things you did not do.
