March 16, 2009
By Anonymous

At the kitchen table,
I heard to my surprise and
Alarm the doorbell with my newborn sleeping.
As the smiling florist delivered the magnificent bouquet,
I sighed and cried at my friends' thoughtfulness.
I was thirty-two.

I enjoyed all the thoughtful cards, the fragrant
flowers, the little boy blue bows; I placed them
On the dining room table and stood, thankful and
overwhelmed. I was thirty-two.

At the kitchen table two days later,
I heard to my dismay and
grief the doorbell with my newborn and me crying
As the florist, not smiling but somber, delivered the
evergreen plant to express condolences. In the mailbox
day after day, I found cards day which read 'For the Loss of Your Father.'
I was thirty-two.

Thinking back, I realized my father, knowing I named
my new son after him, lived just long enough to realize
my apology for years of rebellion and aversion. Nervous and frantic,
I carried my new son into a funeral home to meet his grandfather, his namesake.

I stood there at the casket, thirty-two.

The author's comments:
I like what my mom wrote.

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