your mother, marie

it looks like it wants to rain,
she says, lying in bed,
her gray hair against a pale
blue pillow. she points past
the curtains, out the window.
you look. the sky is low and grey.
I feel it in my bones, she says.
when the leaves lift up
like they do,
and cup themselves
it's a sign,
you can feel the breeze
as the front passes through.
I remember before
your father died, the time
we got caught in a storm.
you were a baby,
I held you in my arms.
it rained and rained
that whole week.
we couldn't go anywhere,
the roads were flooded.
the power out.
he loved me then. she turns
her head to look at you.
did I tell you this story,
she says. no, you say.
you get up to open
the window and pull back
the curtain. it's raining
now, you tell her, go on.
I want to hear more.