by Diana Raab
we sit by the river
and like water
that hasn’t moved in decades
my eyes become filled with tears.
at ninety-two, my mother is dying
reclined in someone else’s
brown vinyl chair, drooping orchids on windowsill.
television blaring nonsensical dialogue
which she no longer hears,
black and white cat on coral
bed cover, the same color of her horse
which I made her stop riding at eighty
after a concussion.
she wears the floral dress i bought her,
photos of her great grandchildren
along the perimeter of her mirror, names
and birthdays she doesn’t care to know.
yesterday she showed me her breast
and I saw cancer eating at her
like the heartbreak she had
in her youth with fighting parents
and all her lost loves—rivers of tears
flowed her entire life.
and I ponder how we are our childhoods,
and also how different we both are
and always sat beside different rivers.
Diana Raab, MFA, PhD, is a memoirist, poet, workshop leader, thought-leader and award-winning author of 14 books and editor of three anthologies. Her work has been widely published and anthologized. Her poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and The Best of the Net. She frequently speaks and writes on writing for healing and transformation.
January House Literary Journal 
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