Mother was called at sixty-one.
Cancer claimed her. Life undone.
We struggled through life
she and I. Days of strife
trying to understand each other.
Good times too, but always another
struggle ahead. The ironic thing
when she died, I was just beginning
to understand the experiences of her day
and how she came to be the way
I knew her. So different from me.
She was a child of change
in the life of the Church, and range
of thought in the world. She embraced
equality for women; and I traced
the differences in our points of view
to feminism. Its philosophy so new,
she had yet to learn the effect
it would have on families and reflect
as I’ve been able, about the role of women.
But now I understand. I understand
what I never could before. I understand
our differences resulted from the choices
we made in life. Our separate voices,
though not of the same opinion,
each reigned throughout the dominion
of our own distinct lives. Despite
all of this, which seems so trite,
now, I understand. There was always love.