“Consistently rude and disrespectful.”
Her last words, the third item in her will.
Them words hit hard, but he ain’t resentful.
Of the lady he called mother and does still.
His father apologized, and then he uttered.
“If I could, I’d give you another.”
The son tears up, they share a dry laugh.
The son replies, “It’s too late, I’m already past half.”
She lived a long life, but now she’s gone.
Twice a wife, and three times a mother.
The oldest of her three, 50-plus years grown.
He’s now sad and depressed without his rudder.
Life’s been an incessant search for identity.
Amidst his fearing, pleasing, and fleeing… her.
But she’s gone, her last words crushing, none but he.
So, the son rejects the definition, the title, and the labeler.
She tried her best, unwittingly befriending demons.
He can’t blame her; they showed up disguised.
His life’s been a longing for answers, for reasons.
But all he found was vanity, ego, and a not-so-subtle pride.
Generational curses, lies, and subjective truths.
Her last words, were descriptive, her last words were snide.
But none of it can matter now for pain was the root.
So, in silent mourning, fate proclaims that grief he must ride.
Consistently rude and disrespectful?
This man is not, that’s not his identity.
She went out swinging, too late to annul.
But I know him well, you see that man, he is me.
Dedicated to my soul.