Mother

By Adalia Bogert

She waved me over

While her children ran around her feet.

She clucked her tongue when she heard the news.

A man had blamed me for having a disease.

“No one understands those,” she said.

I nodded because no one did.

Her daughter tugged on her dress.

“Never have children,” she said.

I might have laughed, but the sound was buried beneath aching bones.

I might have sobbed, but the sound was lost in dreams of white-picket fences.

Later, she’ll congratulate herself on her compassion.

She’ll tuck her children into bed and turn down the light

While I’ll dream of little fingers and soft murmurs.

And the cardboard insole of a shoe I found this morning.

When the woman kisses her husband goodnight, 

I’ll remember how three words stole the word mother. 

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Adalia Bogert (she/her) is pursuing a Bachelor of Arts in English and Creative Writing at Southern New Hampshire University. In addition, she has attended writer’s workshops at the University of California, Los Angeles. She lives in California with her service dog, Sammy. “Mother” was originally published at The Penmen Review.