3 Mother In Her Old Age

[SivaRamanathan]

Let me think of the room where you lived.
Let me imagine the Mumurthis
overlooking your cot.

Your food brought to you. Your special plate,
your tumbler and utensils
were only for you.

Even your bath and closet in the narrow corridor,
they made you live
like a monk.

Looking at your bedside gods
a Muruga, a Krishna,
intricately carved ivory.

Now I wilt in guilt,
for my absence
when you needed me most.

A lifetime of guilt.
Lacking the will power to leave my family
come what may.

On the night you departed I wonder if
you called out to me?
or your daughter-in-law?

The only punishment is if to keep my children
from me between the moment
of wishing and leaving.

Keep me in your good books, Amma.
Because I failed to know
those were your last days.
Fooling myself
giving silly excuses.

Don't talk to me, go back to the soul's domain
Free yourself from mortal bondage,
Choose your gallery.

Let me feel the pain,
your son kept you alive,
stent and sophisticated tissues,
hospitals and home.

Three sixty five days you waited for me in hope
wishing praying hoping chanting
murmuring incantation.

Who came to you when you last called?
Shoot the TV, shatter the sound box.
They heard and pretended not to hear?

Who am I to accuse?

[BobBradshaw]

This is a lovely poem. It's honest, and very moving.

[SivaRamanathan]

Thanks Bob.But it still needs something more to make it a poem. It reads like a rant of guilt.

S