Back in '83, you cleaned a lot,
never watched much TV,
so when I saw you sitting
directly in front of it,
I suspected something
unusual--or special--
happening, so quietly,
I sidled up beside you.
On TV, I saw
the casket of JFK--
in your eyes--tears.
Embarrassed--You stood, said,
"I better get back to work,"
and dabbed your eyes
with the back of your hand.
Seconds later, I heard
the sound of dishes
being washed.
I stayed in front
of the TV, watched JFK
wave to crowds and speak
of moon trips
and Cuban missiles.
An analyst spoke|
of what Kennedy means
to us now--twenty years later.
Funny, but that is the only
time I remember you crying
like that--over an outside event--
or someone gone too soon--
no one inflicting pain
or letting you down--
just tears because you felt sad.
I guess we all do what you did, Mom--
wash dishes, keep living--
but still find a moment
to sit down and remember
the people
we can't forget--
like I did by writing
this poem about you.