My mother and I 
had storms between us 
in my youth.
Not the peaceful rumbles and soft
pitter patter 
of raindrops
on rooftops,
we were angry flashes 
of blinding light,
and the deafening SLAM
of God’s fist against the ground.
The rains that drenched us,
flooding out all possibilities 
of reconciliation.
But as time settled over us,
the tranquility rose between us, 
like the quiet steam
of the pavement,
after a storm.
And as it made way for sunshine
breaking through the clouds,
and the joyful songs
of birds, reemerging,
I got to know two new women:
myself,
and the woman my mom had become. 

Time has a way
of the sneaking senescence 
of our parents,
and the maturing of their children.
As we see our futures
played out before us, 
getting glimpses of what lay
on the road ahead,
The potholes, detours, 
and storms in the distance. 
As we watch our 
mothers, fathers, 
withering, frail,
vulnerable.
Needing us as much
as we once needed them,
they become as those 
first entering this world,
as they ease their way out. 

I am grateful for the years
of calm skies between us 
that led me to the moment 
when I gently cradled her hand, 
assisting the delicate transition of life
just as she once cradled me, 
and aided me with mine.

I sat by her side
and reassured her resting spirit 
of the beautiful journey
of everlasting sunny skies 
that lay ahead.
As my mother exited this world
and the storms which it births, with
one
fleeting
final
breath.