Sputterpub's Blog

“You do too much,” my mother says of late,
who used to carp at me for laziness.
I haven’t shirked real work. I’m 68,
and though I harbor barks of craziness,
I’ve never dropped an oar. I pull my weight,
and just because I argued never meant
she had a point, for sloth was not my trait –
my course reveals good energy well-spent.

At 24 my mother lost her mom,
and moved to suburbs and a social life.
She sang her mother’s praises like a psalm
on selflessness, while she rocked modern wife.
She knows I’m for my grandkids, thought and touch,
and now her slogan is, “You do too much.”

A dozen years ago, a boy was born
who made a grandmother of her and me.
Released from life, she’s now a loss to mourn,
and this is offered as an elegy.

We needed her. The grandpas aren’t close;
the steps have chilly personalities.
The loving ours, we co-supplied the dose
on which grandkids can thrive. From me the squeeze,
from her the cakes and kisses – we tag-teamed.
We rarely saw each other but we knew
our hearts were warm, our efforts what they seemed.

And nothing I can say of her’s more true
than this:
the woman loved and sought and tried
her best – her journey was a fruitful ride.