I turn the page and it’s the poem
“The Day Lady Died” by Frank O’Hara.
Which isn’t actually that surprising since
the page I turn is in The Selected Poems
of Frank O’Hara. And I’ve mostly been
trying not to be morbid, been trying to
maintain a positive sense of self and a
hefty sense of humor with what I’m
thinking, what I’m watching and
what I’m writing this morning.
But how not to delve into the
maudlin or the morbid, me?
Is this just today? Is it
lately, I wonder? Have I
been this way always? But
my first thought is my mother
just died, and she was a lady. And
this gets me to thinking about my mom,
who recently passed. I’ve yet to begin
reading the poem, have decided to save
it for a while (yes, I’ve read this one before,
why did I suddenly feel you judging me?), but
as my eyes come up from the page, I see this
portion of a line about halfway down the page,
“(first name Linda I once heard)” – and I think
that perhaps I’ve been this way always, as I am
suddenly reveling in the fact that my mother,
who just recently passed away, was named
Linda.
