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The poems

Made by Teresa Marrin
© 2010-2012

bed check

The thing with moms is
That you have to check in periodically
Either we call you
Or you call us
But after a while
Maybe minutes, maybe hours
Maybe days
We get twitchy
We want to know where you are
What’s going on
Have to hear your voice
Tell you we love you

And when you die
We can’t check in
We keep waiting
For the phone to ring
The car to drive up
The call for help
Or an update or just to say hi
That’s what I’m missing most right now
Checking in

When you were little
We did bed check
Sometimes (especially for you)
We checked a lot
To make sure you were OK
That you hadn’t hanged yourself
Or smothered or at the very least
Weren’t going to sleep
One of the last times
You saw your little girl
You stood in the bedroom door
And watched her sleep

That’s what I miss
That’s what I miss