Grateful (working title)

Looking back now,
I still feel grateful—

grateful I was not there
when my mother, whom I have never
seen cry, leaned against the counter
and sobbed after a voice on the other
end of the line told her
that her father had slipped
in the shower and died of a heart attack.

(I never asked whose voice it was
that brought the news.)

I know it is selfish, my relief
at being spared the initial implosion
of grief. She had always
been there for those changes of mine,
the tiny bumps that seemed
like the world.

But what would I have done,
besides stand there, useless like the
sponge I was, searching for a word,
any word, and offering nothing?

So instead of inept muttering,
instead of inadequate pats on the back,
instead of silence, my mother got
an answer of sorts. She got the dog,
rushing into the kitchen on the frantic
clicking of nails and a high-pitched
whine, pawing and pleading speechlessly
with her not to cry.

Grateful for the sympathy
and for the innocence, she
smiled a weak smile. Drew a breath.
The tears stopped.