How often people tell me,
You’re so lucky to have your mom,
which crosses my mind on

Momdays when I pick her up
at the house by the lake in her car
since she no longer drives,

as I deposit her at various
appointments, run to the store,
back to her house, put away

the purchases, sit with her skittish
kitty who adores her and is leery
of most others, then fly back

to pick her up—for lunch, for
the next appointment, get the
car washed and deliver her home

where, as the season swings warm,
I’ll water the patio pots ripe with
green and blooming things, as my

sister does on her Momdays, and
so much more—bringing her new
grandson to see his great grandma.

“Yes, I am,” I tell people, so very
fortunate to return in some small
measure the carting around,

the feeding and caring she did
for my sister and me all our young
lives, the one who made us,

the one who taught me to drive,
who still gives directions about
where to turn, which I don’t mind

since so much has changed about
the place where she and our father
plopped us 58 years ago,

next to the lake where we skied,
where she still lives, where she
raised us lucky, lucky girls.