My mother wakes before the morning light,
Huffing, coughing, struggling to rise,
Another day to renew the hopeless fight,
Another day to see through squinting eyes.
Her bed is her throne, a study, a friend;
Soft lamplight falls on the heaping bookshelf,
The books all worn, pages pulled to the end,
Signs of sleepless nights spent up by herself.
Pain holds her dear when father is gone,
The veins pulsing blue against her spotted hand,
I have watched it grow worse, as her son;
Like an hourglass slowly running out of sand.
Yet, the garden blooms under her careful eye,
The roses, the peppers, purple sage and coneflowers
Growing large and strong, like my brother and I,
Nurtured by stores of her unending power.
But we’ve both seen that power fade,
The syndrome stripping years and memories away,
Carving layers from my mother with an unseen blade,
Taking the freshest pieces off every day.

— Micah Filice, 19
Son of Marijane Igoe-Filice (PWC)
Sedona,Arizona