The Rising

It's evening now. I look out
into the night sky, the moon a cup
of blackness. There are no stars
to guide me through this emptiness.
I think of how my mother died
long ago. This tiny ball of a universe,
casting us off so effortlessly, indifferently.
So small we are, so alone.
My mother loved me when I was a child
but grew to hate me.
Just like my adult daughter does now.
We used to be so close.
Sharing secrets and vodka.
But today I learned I'm just an obligation.
I squeeze my toes, feeling the strange
tingling of neuropathy and bitterness
of old age. I'm nothing
but a worn out shoe that nobody is ready
to throw away just yet.
I haven't left the house in a month.
Simply shuffle and wait to die
within these too familiar walls.
Wondering what everyone will say about me
when I'm gone.
I once believed I was a good person.
But maybe I'm not. Maybe, like I always feared,
I was truly unlovable, in the end.
But the moon hovers over everything tonight,
strange, sad sentinel.
Even the cars in the parking lot
are lost and silent.
And I realize it doesn't matter how
I loved Chopin all my life,
especially the posthumous Nocturne in c sharp minor
that someone once referred to as moonlight
rising over a corpse. Soon,
the moonlight will rise above mine,
and I shall be forgotten.