Did my mother realize she had died—when she died? I mean, was she cognizant of the fact that my sister would wake me–Doug, it’s time. It’s happening. We have to go.

Did she know that my sister and I would miss her death by minutes because I had to take a shit before leaving?

Was she aware of the fact that she died five days after Valentines?

My stepfather sat, in his recliner, staring at her lifeless body on the hospital bed in their living room. She was the love of my life. I might as well stick a gun in my mouth. What’s the point now?

Did she know I loved her?

My knees supported me while leaving indentations in the carpet, as I silently told her how fucking awesome she was, that I loved her, and that I’m happy her pain is over.

She just lied there,
staring up, up at the ceiling
while I held her hand.  

Did she hear me pray? Did she hear me at all? I hope so.

Because I didn’t pray to Jesus.
I didn’t pray to Allah
or Odin or Yahweh.

I prayed to my mother— 
The First and only God  
I ever knew.