Rolfie's Mother Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

And there she is,
resting,
like a small child,
in the fetal position,
Mother, I am afraid
this isn't you, is it?

I have many,
well thousands
of memories,
none,
or rather few have faded,
vivid is what I would call
the others,
three dimensional,
full of the colour that once was,
always has been,
you,
my Mother.

From the beginning
when I looked at you,
as you,
smiling with anticipation,
would come into the room,
ready to take care
of all my needs,
me,
the bright pretender,
who,
as often as it suited him,
put on a show, acting too young,
for reasons not revealed
portrayed a midget of a boy
whose stage of growth was not
what could have been
expected reasonably,
given the truth of it.

Yes Mother was a gem those days,
no need would be too cumbersome,
no cry ignored, she had this thing,
this attitude of sheer infinity, as if
all time had been reserved to care
for that small gaggle of fresh kids,
full of rambunctiousness and life,
mischievous dimples in a private niche
inside the Fatherland that nurtured all,
yet would reluctantly agree to see
backsides of them, so soon they went,
to find another promised land, away
and always it was Mother who would be
the stalwart, a short-statured beacon in the sea.

She always found the time, and more,
and now and then she'd have a little too,
just for herself, to brush her hair, to sing
and it would make an even better one,
resourceful and of talents yet possessed,
the kiddoes knew about priorities,
at such an early age, as Mother would engage
into the depths of it, of subtle interaction,
though never called it love, which surely
and with overwhelming clarity it always was.

The years have slipped away, you shrank,
a bundle to be placed inside a home,
where you again enjoyed a little time,
just for yourself, to comb your hair, to sing
and now and then you'd hear the doorbell,
one would bring, a few bananas, overripe,
and sit to shoot the breeze and reminisce.

A pleasant life, the evening of it all,
with time, and leisure on your hands,
to study photographs and have, at night,
those melancholy dreams, to see their smiles,
and wake when first the sun would warm
that snow white linen on your silent bed,
a touch of gold it seemed had come,
through regulation drapes to visit you.
But it was never quite the same, you know.
Without the silly patter of those little feet.