Poetry

Good – Paul Hostovsky

When my mother was dying
she said, “I’m not very good at this.”
“Is anyone?” I asked, smoothing
the blanket on her hospital bed.
“Some people are,” she said. “The ones
who spend their lives preparing.”
“I think we’re all unprepared,” I said.
“I’m not very good at this,” she said
again, wincing as she tried to change
position. “And what would it look like
if you were–good at this?” I asked
as I helped her to change position.
She smiled at that, or at me, or at
herself. And said, “I don’t know.”

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3 thoughts on “Good – Paul Hostovsky

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