I ask you, “What did you call her? 
Was it Ma or Mama, or mother?”
You reply slowly. I see you going 
far back to a kitchen where a short
brown haired woman is busy
preparing a family meal and you,
a little boy in short pants with
knee socks pulled up neatly,
your haired slicked down as only 
a 1930’s mother could do, peek
around the door frame from the
living room and call out, “Ma, 
I just needed to see your face,”
“I  called her Ma”.

I have called you Dad for 61 years
and now I know what you called 
your mother.

6/8/25
KW