My Mom

My mom is sitting at the kitchen table.
I’m looking at her, into her,
The woman who birthed me, her son.

“I see you search my eyes for
Answers I don’t have," she says.
"And it breaks my heart.”

She is right.
I find no answers there.

But there is comfort –
Pain and love. Shared loss.
And the death of my own son
Otto Charles.