behind me on Mother’s Day

He leaned over me
on the way to the john
spoke softly
as drunks will
to strangers.

For a few hours
as we and they ate
he had —
speaking French to
his mother and father —
thanked them,
and he gave her a bouquet;
and they loved him
even if he was
drinking too much,
a bit too funny:
they spoke sweetly,
patiently in rich,
intimate patois.

He leaned over me
on his way
to the john,
and whispered
you know
Mother’s Day
makes me sad:
my wife died of cancer
five years ago today;
we had no kids.
Don’t worry,
it’s okay.
They understand.

He walked on
towards the john.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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