The second person is my mother who died at 44 years old.
She dropped dead.
And she was a great--
I write about my mother all the time.
I scavenge her bones, I think.
And I wrote this poem.
And when I got to the part about my little girl--
and my mother's been dead for 20, almost 30 years--
I cried because my mother did call me her little girl,
and perhaps I still am.
Anyway, "the death of thelma sayles," February 13, 1959,
aged 44.
This is her speaking.
"I leave no tracks so my live loves can't follow.
At the river, most turn back, their souls shivering,
but my little girl stands alone on the bank and watches.
I pull my heart out of my pocket and throw it.
I smile as she catches all she'll ever catch
and heads for home and her children.
Mothering will make it strong, I whisper
in her ear along the leaves."