My mother is someone who works incredibly hard. From morning until late in the evening, she is working at her career, working at keeping the house clean, feeding her family, everything. My mother literally does everything for the love of her family. Because of her hard work, I have often worried about how she may be doing with her health. I fear that her hard work will get to her and knock her down. Because of these fears, I felt inspired to write this poem. This is called “The Race.”
My Mother’s skin is greying
like silver ice stuck on pavement.
Her bones going brittle, her mind racing.
Racing,
her mind is always
racing.
My Mother’s desk is a recycling bin.
The papers flutter and fly
like a heavy snowstorm in January.
Her fingers tap at incredible speed.
Racing,
her fingers are always
racing.
My Mother cannot hear when I call out.
She pretends to listen so she quickly
smiles and nods like a puppet
attached to thick string.
Racing,
her reply is always
racing.
My Mother folds and cracks.
Her once bright eyes no longer sparkle.
Her skin, it drags and it droops,
each particle racing to sag.
Racing,
lately her wrinkles are always
racing.
Mom stop, please sit down,
take a break before you drown.
I promise the laundry can be done later.
Let me help, I’ll do you a favour.
Please listen, I can’t bear another frown.
Can’t you hear me? I said put the broom down!
My Mother lays peacefully in bed,
white roses surrounding her delicate head.
Her expression is blank,
just like it is in my memories.
Racing,
I couldn’t get her to stop
racing.
My Mother beat my father in
the race to their final bed,
and for the first time
I see her rest.
Well Mom,
congratulations,
you won the race.
Originally published in “Let’s Fly Away” by Polar Expressions Publishing
Featured image via Pexels
