I am angry.

My mother cannot walk

or do much with her hands.

I hate.

My father for treating my mother

so terribly for many years.

I am glad.

My mother is away from my father

and surrounded by beauty,

beautiful people ...

(now friends) at the care center.

I have pity.

My father is alone

until he goes to visit my mother.

Sometimes I cry for her,

Sometimes I pray for her, and

Sometimes I laugh with her

    at life's little pleasures,

Thankful she can hear me,

and feels my fears and my sadness

and my gladness

and still cares and knows that I care.

My mother is alone, yet positive.

She use to be little, now bloated,

yet she's positive.

I visit her, and she's happy...

I leave and she cries, sobs...

I feel bad that I can't be there

    more often for her.

She is the most beautiful,

    warm person in the world.

Yet look at the life

she has been given.

She's a saint.

I try to comfort her;

She comforts me more.

She's the rose.

1995