My Mother Died

My Mother Died
By James Oliver Smith Jr

My mother died ... yesterday ...
at least ... that's what one aunt says ...

she was married to one of my mother's brothers ... a brother
who was already dead ...
she was telephoned
by one of my other aunts
who was
also married to one of my mothers brothers ...
another brother
who was also dead ...

or

perhaps it was earlier ...
There seems to be some confusion
within my family ...
about my mother's death ...
not about my mother being dead ...
but ... rather ... about ... who ...
will tell me
my mother is dead ...

I ... myself ... was curious
about this ... too ..
as I watched the
raw ... December ... sun
stroke my 65 year old hands ....

Wrinkles
sprung up from my hands
as I laid plastic tracks
on the children's bar
in the coffee shop
... forming ...
a child's universe
from plastic engineering ...

trains and horses
traverse the tracks
beneath an oscillating fan
warding off Minnesota's winter
...
which craves to
cling to pane glass
as light rail trains

... real trains ... outside ...


remind me
there's something churning ... outside ...
my mother's death ...

I know
there's supposed to be a protocol
... mother dies ...
... children notify siblings
... siblings notify the world ...
... condolences ...
propagate
like pigeons in Elliot Park
or Landmark Square ...

Then ... I suppose ...  I should reflect
on the good times ...
on the ... shared ... supposed ... intimate memories? ...
on the ... supposed ... affections once held? ...

Between the sub-zero temperatures
outside
... the arthritic fingers ...
... the merciless ... low hanging sun ...
my hands open the box of
reflections
and grope ... with those ...
tired hands ... inside ...
My knuckles knock ... painfully
against bare walls ...
an empty bottom ...
and a top ... never ...
properly installed ...
nothing deposited ... empty ...

What is the protocol
for emptiness? ...
.... What is the response ...
to "condolences"
lobbed in the direction
of emptiness? ...

Another light rail train
glints by in the Solstice sun ...
on University Avenue ...
It's the shortest day ...
the longest night ...
and for me ... the largest ...
box of emptiness ..

My daughter
asks my brother
to tell me
my mother is dead ... sometime ...
recently ...

and ... she says ...

whispering ... from within that box
of emptiness ...

"Tell him" ... she said ....
"his mother is dead"

... then she said ...
"You'll tell me, (right?)
when he's ill?" ... "when he's ill?"

My brother sighs ... relieved ...
"The cat is out of the bag" ... he says ...

I snap more plastic tracks together ....
and I arrange trains and horses ...

and put the lid ... firmly ...
back onto the empty box of reflections ...

"You will tell me (right?),"
... says my daughter ... to my brother ...
"when he's ill?"

My mother is dead ...
I think ...
as I contemplate my aunt's message
... "Your mother is dead" ...

The protocol was short circuited ...


The box of reflections is empty ...

A neighbor says...
"Your grandson was baby Jesus last year"
in the church nativity ...
another empty ... unshared
reflection ...

Happy Solstice ...


It's the longest night ...
It's the shortest day ...
It's the most empty box
of reflections ...

The condolences? ...

I click another plastic track together ...
and watch another light rail train
pass by
outside ....
beneath the December sun ...

My old wrinkled hands
can touch the tracks ...
They can feel the memories ...

They push aside the empty box
of my mother's empty memories ...

And my daughter? ... and her baby Jesus? ...

She won't have to worry ... anymore ...
who is going to tell me
my mother's dead ...

josjr (2016 1222)

... The Bard of Franklin Avenue ...