three words

the gathering of black birds
at her grave
with heads bent in sorrow
does nothing for you.
nor do the flowers,
the words said in tears.
none of that matters.
it's what came before
that counts.
the meals, the homework,
the clothes she washed,
the gentle way she held
you when you were sick.
how she laughed
and shook her head at
so much you said,
ending each call with
three words.