Mothers and Fathers

Mother raised me.
Dad was a slightly distant figure,
Given to little interaction with us kids.
“He must work hard” I thought.

He’s gone 10 years
And I talk to him occasionally.
Listening, as I describe my parents
I hear unexpected fullness when I talk of Dad.

Often, since Dad’s death,
Diana and I have visited Mom, 3000 miles away
Until she moved into an “Adult Hotel”
I could, unfailingly, rejoice in her salami sandwiches.

Speaking of mom my voice sounds hollow.
I recall her painting ducks on the kitchen cabinets.
Red ducks on the while doors
I don’t know why I’ve kept that image.

She is not easy for me,
My most ancient memories are few.
Mom’s laughter was mezzo-soprano,
But I have difficulty coloring her picture.

Strange, white space blocks
Tears and bright recollections
A not young man,
I wait for approval.