Mother, May, she

While congress might not have voted on this just yet, it is a well known fact that this month is my mother's month. I say "well known" because I, well, know it.

May is my mom's month. I have just said that 10 times fast so that makes it official. You can look that up -- it is a true fact that I read in a blog I just wrote on the internet so it must be true.

Between Mothers' Day and her birthday (and other salient points) this month is set aside to celebrate the singular person who is my mom and in that vein, I take some time on a Sunday in May to write a poem to my mom. And I do this despite the first-world-problem I am wrestling with, the trouble my computer is having with the M key. I suffer in order to celebrate this lovely lady.

I call this poem "Motherc"
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M is for the many months in which I was reportedly in your womb. I have no particular proof of this but lacking evidence to the contrary, I am forced to concede its probability

O is for the ovaries. If you need me to explain their relevance, you should probably not be reading this.

T is for the trouble that I got in as a youngster. I was pretty much a jerk.

H is the eighth letter of the alphabet. I learned that from my mother. Maybe. I might just have counted. But I give her credit to be sure, you know?

E is for the everyman, the spirit within us all that strives for survival in this dog-at-dog world, the drive to be accepted and loved and make our way through life. Truth is, E was voted "least likely to be for anything related to your mother" but I had to include it for certain contractual reasons.

R is for Rosen. Duh.

C is for cookie. Et cetera.

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I think that the meter fails in the second half of the fourth line of the eighth stanza but I invoke poetic license, and essayists learner's permit.

So, in sum, happy May to my mum, the Dear Ol' Mom of email fame. May this month and year be yours for years to come.

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