HOUR 7

REGRETS

When I was a teenager,

my widowed mother and I

were best friends.

She was my confidante,

(it shocked my friends)

and I was hers.

Some made me uncomfortable,

but I would listen,

and I grew up fast.

She prayed for a good husband for me

Yet when I did, a crack appeared.

I confided in my husband now.

The crack widened into a rift

and turned into a crevice.

She and I tried to repair

the relationship and failed.

My mother grew sick,

I was terrified of regrets

And tried hard to change.

But each time

ugly, mean, unforgivable

thoughts occurred.

Yet I tried and thought I succeeded.

The second of her passing,

a lifetime of anger towards her

was forgotten.

What remains are my actions.

I wanted no regrets,

but I do.

It is not what my mother and I

were to each other,

it is what we were not.