Prodigal Mom
by
Mollie Lyon
In the waiting we know the
prodigal father,
eyes on the horizon
skirts raised, ready to
run
his eyes ever expecting
his son.
What of the prodigal
mother?
We hear no mention of her.
In the kitchen with a
chore,
Never knowing for sure.
Did she stew about
decisions made
without her knowledge?
A bitter or praying maid
in that kitchen looking
out the ledge?
She, too, waiting,
fattening a calf.
With each meal made
praying or despising her
better half?
Wishing her son were here
in the shade?
Her attitude influenced
the elder son;
did she embitter him when
they should have had fun?
Did she want to escape
like a dove
when she should have
embraced love?
What of this mother not
known
how did she feel with her
son flown?
How do all mothers react?
With tenderness and tact?
full of burden and guilt
when she had to wait
blaming herself or her mate?
Mothers are different
in ways that they parent.
But this woman
What did she do with her
man?
Where did she stand
as the son returned?
Which son did she choose?
Which did she refuse?
Or did she embrace both
as that father would
if the elder boy allowed,
only if they could.
We're not told
maybe mom is gone or old.
How are you, Mom?
Are your words life or
should they be dumb?
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