Sputterpub's Blog

I worried so when I was young, I built
my frets to threats against all inner peace.
While other Jews were specialists at guilt,
I nurtured my anxiety’s increase.
Now doubtless I’ve surpassed my mother’s skill,
envisioning the ways things can go wrong –
I’ve agitated often with a will
that wouldn’t quit and couldn’t be more strong.

I tried to reason worry gone. I knew
my dreams contained no omens and my fears
were realized almost never. Yet I grew
no less a nervous wreck by adding years.
But that was yesterday; old age forbids
appropriating worry from my kids.

Accustomed as I am to be shut up
whenever I’m in Mom’s vicinity,
as much as I’m determined to put up
with disregard for my veracity
and memory (and cause she set the tone
at home, my dad and brothers joked along,
so I the oldest, only girl, alone,
was mocked with so much love it made me strong),
imagine my amazement yesterday,
when I attempted to expound a thought,
and saw my mother look at me the way
she would if it were my respect she sought.
My brothers didn’t interrupt or jeer;
I think they all think Mom’s demise is near.