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The Good Son

Mother asked me to run the messages, I'd swing
the scuffed leather bag as I bee-lined to
Bousfields for Brussels sprouts, King Edward
spuds, and Spanish onions: I felt grownup,
helping her buy the makings for our dinner.

Now she's age eight-six, her phone tolls in my ear
as I stand outside the Timonium laundromat, winter
chilling my cheeks as I grip my cell phone. I plead
with Gene at her senior high-rise to check on her;
Gene reports she's fallen; I see her sprawled
among papers, People magazines, in pain.

I doze in the waiting room at 1:00 AM. Stink of
puke. Old black man scowls, "Whatchew messin'
with ma dick!" I pester the desk, get a badge
to go into the ER, a PA takes out her teeth
(later lost); no fractures; her back's bruised,
doesn't recall fall, angry confused. I squeeze

her thin hand, she says, "You're a good son."
I know she resents I never had children,
I acted the stepdad though; the kids told me
I wasn't their dad. I was Mom's only child.

The docs diagnosed MS, advised she should only
have me. I've said I'm a man of letters, famed
in my own skin: my poems are my children.
I watch myself on TV, wince at my lip snarl
under my moustache. What kind of Dad?

Christopher T. George

Hi Chris,

This is a very moving and honest expression of how one
must feel when they become the parent and the parent
becomes the child. I must say I experienced the same
type of thoughts when my mother had Alzheimer's. Even
though I lived very far away and only saw her occasionally,
most of the burden falling on two of my siblings, I still
experienced the resentment and powerlessness that one
feels when the parent-child roles are reversed.

Sherry

I, too, found this very moving, Christopher. I've never had children, either... my jobs and my animals have fulfilled my need for that level of nurturing; however, many would tell me it doesn't come close.

The frustration and fear permeating a situation with a mother whom you cannot make well is throughout this. I remember the feelings I had with my Dad; and with my Mom, I've fortunately been spared them, so far.

I love how your use of details bring your poems alive.


~ Lizzy

Chris - I was saving my 400th post for a song I'm working on. I had every intention of not posting publicly until it was done.

I am honored to use it instead to tell you how moved I am by this poem. One has to know me to know how rarely I am moved by poetry.

I am deeply affected by your words. Thank you for sharing this fine work.

Respectfully,

John K.

Hello John

Thank you so much for your kind words. I am glad you found the poem to be moving.

Chris

+/-

Hello BoHo

Many thanks for your fullsome response to my poem. I am moved by your praise and thank you also for liking my Waste Land/ Orson Welles poem. I appreciate you taking the time to wordsmith my poem and I will take your comments and suggestions into consideration.

Since I wrote the poem my mother has been transferred to a nursing home, the doctors at Mercy Hospital deeming that she was not competent to return to her apartment, so I have been running to the nursing home since Friday and have not had much time to write.

So now I am feeling extra guilty that my mother is alternately angry and resentful that she's in the home, unable to return to her apartment, and grateful at other times for small favors that I do for her or for the attention of the staff. It's a mess and so sad but this situation has been building up for some time as she has continued to lose her grasp on reality.

Chris