Mother and Daughter
By Ronald Moran

The bond between mother and daughter can be

                        so profound

that when Jane died, Sally died, too, differently

                        and elsewhere—

 

more secret yet more telling than the casket or urn,

                        or grave—

a not wanting to touch, much less see, the final

                        resting place

 

of Jane or that thick, pink sweater she wore

                        whenever

the temperature dropped enough for the heat

                        to kick on,

 

or talk about Jane to anyone, just ordinary talk.

                        What they liked

to do together, Sally did for Jane as she could

                        before Jane

 

wore down: feet shuffling, unable to breathe

                        without

pain, without a nitro placed under the tongue.

                        All this, then,

 

was filed so deeply in Sally’s consciousness

                        that nothing

would surface on its own; and if it did, well,

                        what good

 

would it ever do for her, whose life had been

                        a testament

to fending off a precise cooling, like a sweater

                        in early fall.