The Fog of Love

Impatiently.

A mother knows these things.

And daughters always think they know better,
When they hardly know themselves.

I love the man.
She never understood that.
He is derisive,
Angers easily.

It’s rarely easy love.
But it’s still love.

I know the dissatisfaction in his life.
All men need a sense of accomplishment.
He has fallen short of himself.

She doesn’t remember his hope.
Or his ambition.
Only his failure
And what it wrought on his identity.

She doesn’t see the sadness in his eye,
The betrayal of himself.
And she never felt his tenderness
Or his love.

He’s had little enough tender for me.
But the love…

The love is easy for me to see
In the quiet moments,
When he relaxes into himself.
That’s when I go to him
With all the tenderness I can spare.

He hasn’t got long now.
Resignation brings him some days of peace
And tenderness.
And some days of bitterness.

On those days I come here
And think about her.

And I wonder,
When the day comes that I cross over
Whether she’ll register my tears
As happiness for being with her,
Or grief for losing him.

I’m not sure which it will be.
Perhaps, both
Or maybe the tears I cry for him here
Will have been enough grief.

No, my daughter, I am not waiting for hope.
I am waiting for loss.