She Would Be 106 Today

My Mother did not believe in fiction.

Her devotion to learning precluded such

Hypotheses, swords of Damocles to her.

For my mother, the piano, voice, and facts

Made living worth the life. She preferred 

People not in power, despite delighting

Those who were, who felt their reputations

Rise in her company. She thought right 

Alongside them, followed their suppositions, 

Even appeared to support the self-styled 

Mirrors they held up as though permanent.

My mother knew grammar flawlessly,

A fan of Edwin Newman, best of breed.

She lamented her own need to unlearn 

What she had learned at home to fit in with

Other academics, scholarly inclined.

She resisted what she called wasting time.

Calculated human hours spent on task.

Like raking the leaves on our corner lot