Who’s Sorry Now
was her favorite song.
“You’ll be sorry when I’m dead and gone,”
she would bellow at her two girls for whatever reason.
Her life spanned fifty-nine years
of hard work and harder partying…
and then she died of a cerebral hemorrhage.
We were two sisters
detailing the aftermath of her death.
Sorting clothes, memorabilia, and personal papers,
we turned on the Telefunken stereo
to break the deadly silence of this once lively house.
WHO’S SORRY NOW
blared from the old set.
We physically jumped!
She was dead and gone, and she had been right:
we were sorry.
Ann was our mother,
and she was bellowing at us one more time…
from another realm.
Shades of the Hamilton theatre experience in this one, I feel. Lightning has struck at least twice in your life.
I didn’t think of that, Murland. Thanks for this reminder.