Enter the past with all its variable light

and shade, a tunnel of ferns and evergreens,

wet open meadows, fields that have known blight

and broken bottles left from angry scenes.

Mother, the shame is real that you confess.

I know it too: failed love, the bite of lies

returning after years. I know the mass

of accusations and catastrophes.

It’s good we didn’t know them starting out:

you that a son would die, a husband leave,

I that ambition would descend to doubt,

my own past finger me awake with grief.

I come to visit you, always surprised

to find you reading books, highbrowed and low,

attending meetings, keeping me apprised

of how the town is faring. Moving slow

but stubbornly present to your living sons,

you laugh again, and that is gift enough.

Honor the giver and the life that runs

through days redeemed by acts of mortal love.