Sister Catherine



Spare the rod?

Incriminate the child?

The older the branch…the more the rot.

Should I just agree…to our terminal lot?

I wish I knew you when you were young.

Seems to be an obvious reality…

I am not you…

You are not me.

Looking up while looking back.

A shaky and shady wooded mass.

Stood as a shelter for withered masks.

Perhaps, a down trodden maple

poising as a family staple.

Haltered from the bottom to top.

Bringing  obliged kisses ‘sleep tight!’

A full circle around Disney on a Sunday night.

Were you there, pretending to be just a little out sight.

Had you been my savoir…12 inches tall, dressed in black and white?

Sometimes my memories no matter how I talk to them…do not fit right.

Odd, back in the day, spiraled and wired brushes…all the rage.

Seemed that fad just reminds me of being betrayed.

‘Wait til your father gets home…’ is all I had heard.

Now, whenever a brush is combed and unfurled.

Late in the evening, when the life around us is not mine…

And, it is not yours.

I wonder if you are out there shaking the family tree for a cure.

In those small moments, after a rerun of ‘All in the Family’…

I think of you and wonder…

has she found the hour between suffering and serenity?

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