I am writing this card, as I feel I must, to tell you how sorry I am
that your mother has died. I guess I can tell you
that I always said hi as she stepped already a white-faced ghost
through the halls
on her walker.
Her great-lady days, alas, were over
but I always liked sitting with her at lunch.
As you see I’m writing this on a card
that shows one of Monet’s endless
scenes of a water-lily pond.
I’ll reproduce it as best I can all the while telling you how much I cared
for your mother
and enjoyed her company.
Some of the great-lady days survived
in her conversation at lunch.
(I exaggerate a bit as one does in these things)
but I hope you’ll find some solace in the card, and in the painting
and in my make-believe of sitting here
where Monet once sat
with his easel.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 4.
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