The Night My Mother Died
On the night my mother died, the Boston Red Sox
won the World Series after 86 years
ending the Curse of the Bambino, a curse incurred
when they sold Babe Ruth to the New York Yankees
in January of 1920, just before
my mother turned 9 years old.
My mother gave no power to curses
she looked at the world through
lenses ground and polished by hope
and faith, a steadfast belief in the
goodness of humankind.
But after looking through rose-colored glasses,
for 93 years, she had seen enough.
On the night my mother died I slept
fitfully, while my son and his dad watched
the winning game on television in the next room,
sounds of cheering a painful counterpoint to the
loss and devastation in my world that night.
I stumbled out of bed just as the game was over,
my son, his smile stretching from one adorable
4-year-old ear to the other, still young and innocent
knowing little about death or curses, raised
his fist in triumph and shouted,
“We won, Mom, we won.”
Dear Martha . . This brought tears to my eyes. Thank you.
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Good morning Martha. I Smithsonian magazine has a wonderful artic