
I didn’t visit her before she died,
This friend of my mother who
Knew more of her than I.
Florence was her name.
I didn’t take time for the truth.
I didn’t take time to find out that
Which I would want to know later.
Then, I was young and too busy
Making my own truth,
Doing things that were the
Genesis of my own secrets.
Secrets that people have
Are like fruit on the vine,
Some intoxicating and addictive,
Others, sweet and safe.
Whether Mother’s secrets were
Poison or sustaining,
They were personal.
And they belonged to her,
Not me.
The fruits of her spirit and
The fruits of her labor
Are what I know
And for us here,
That’s enough.
Susan Patterson
7-2013
Audio-
Discussion-
We discuss and debate on television, over dinner and in the classroom. We read about others' pain and humiliation in books and in newspapers. It is, I think, a cultural addiction. Not that most of us have heinous secrets, we do not. But there are times when personal privacy is called for, and most likely, that is most of the time. skp