Nothing I could have said yesterday
would have caused my mom’s heart less ache,
so instead I swallowed my lackluster words
along with the brunch she made for us—
smashed avocado on whole-wheat toast,
topped with a peppered over-medium egg
and sliced golden cherub tomatoes—
healthy, since she is on a weight loss
accountability journey with me,
toeing the uphill mountain beside me,
cheering me on quietly 
so as not to make too much fuss.

Glanced across the kitchen table,
my eyes met hers as we ate
in a heavy, humid June silence
darkened by a day thirty years ago,
when my mom said goodbye to her mom
for the very last time in an Atlanta hospital bed.
She held my gaze for a moment,
and I did my best to absorb
just an iota of her muted strength
and humble resilience over the past
three decades of being a mom
who’s forced to mother three girls
without being able to sit
across from her own mom 
at the kitchen table, 
peer into her soul for just a moment,
be bolstered by her Chanel No. 5-scented hugs.

Nothing I could have said yesterday
would have alleviated my mom’s pain,
so instead, I wrapped her in a hug,
thanked her for brunch,
washed the dishes
and hoped to God that Mom 
senses me walking daily her own journey 
of loss by her side, holding her hand,
squeezing back into it gently 
that iota of strength I’ve inherited
from my mom and the one 
who raised her to love me
just like the song we have passed down:
a bushel and a peck
and a hug around the neck,
never failing to support me,
as now I’m praying she intuits
from all the words I chose not to say.