My Mother Stopped Sipping

My mother died. Yesterday, today?
Everyday. Every day I cancel the writing
class - the only one I ever cancel -
to go see her. Every day, I get
up early, put on my blue jeans,
white cotton shirt, my flats.

I slip on my miraculous
metal to please her, a
talisman from my childhood.

I rouse Sara, 14 years old, and
say, "Dylan has had breakfast.
Watch him. I am going to visit
Grammie."

"Why," she stretches, a butterfly
escaping the cocoon. "Will she
know the difference?"

"She'll know." I turn on the
bedroom light, lacking kindness.
"Get up."

Long grey pavement turns to
coal black asphalt as the sun
rises and tall trees cathedral
the avenue.

Five miles away, I stop for a coffee,
no cream, no sugar,
I am doing penance.

Every day, black, no cream,
no sugar.

She is dying. She dies. I am
sipping piping hot Kona coffee
and turning the keys in the
ignition and my mother
stopped sipping.

My mother is dying,
yesterday, today.