Crow's Feet: Life As We Age
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Morning Coffee with My 92-year-old Mom

Uncovered stories.
​By Carol Shamon
Picture
Photo by Erik Witsoe on Unsplash
When I come to visit she always asks if I believe in life after death
 I always tell her that I do and she always says that she wishes she did
 but thinks there is nothing

Soon we slip into the stories

 I’ve heard them many many times 
 but never remind her of this

The stories are slivers that have pierced her and as she digs them out
 they appear golden

When my father bathed us as babies and mopped the kitchen floor
 His beautiful death
 How she told her ancient Mother that of course her money had not run out,
 when of course it had years before
 Her fat, stern uncle who turned out to be so kind and so wise
 The one time she felt anger toward her Mother-in-law
 Her Grandfather the rabbi stroking his long beard, the Grandmother
 with her head covered, washing clothes with a washboard

The sunlit room with only our two voices 
 becomes a sanctuary
 no mourner’s candles are needed
​

Each story is a door 
 Those we have loved and sometimes feared
 silently enter and rise like the glittering dust
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