The widows are keeping my mother busy
now that she’s become one of them,
and also the girls from her exercise class
who are only a few years older than me.
They tell her You’re ours on Wednesdays.
She’s been to see the Andrews Sisters
impersonators; and the Morton Arboretum;
went trick-or-treating with her great-grandchildren,
temperatures below freezing; and did I mention
just yesterday she had lunch at the Greek diner
with her book club, the one that doesn’t read books.
You’re never home, I complain when eventually
she picks up the phone. I know, she answers.
I guess I’m just saying yes to everything.
Now she’s reporting they finally
got the communion song right
on the Feast of the Immaculate Conception.
I tried to tell the singer for years, she said.