I'm Getting Old, Mom

Well, Mom, I'm getting old.
I published a few books.
I think you always knew I was a poet.
Your love for literature
must be genetic.
The osteoporosis must be genetic, too.
My back aches all the time,
and my knees forbid me
from having your energy.
Funny how memory finds a man,
hummingbird wings on a tired dawn.

I have a life now, you know?
I quit drinking.
I know you were always
worried about that.
Went places. Loved a few women.
Raised children who grew up
and found better things to do
than call their old man.
Your eyes looked like walnuts
dancing when you were happy.
You would have adored
your grandchildren.

I used to think if I did something
worth doing,
you might finally understand
what you brought into this world.
As if a man could build steps
out of all the things he'd done
and climb high enough
to give everything clarity.

But here I am, Mom,
back where I started,
with a cup of coffee
and the house gone quiet.

I remember when you used to
pretend you were sleeping.
I'd try to wake you up,
and you wouldn't open your eyes,
and then you'd laugh and say,
I was just kidding.

I thought you'd live forever.
I'm getting old, Mom.