Blessed with beautiful blue eyes, 
Or perhaps cursed, for they brought Him to her, 
She was born in July, and died the next month. 
The life she led in the years between 
Was a full one, though too often 
Full of things she didn’t want, 
Like loneliness. 
Often penniless, 
With four bottomless bellies to fill 
Still she kept going, working 
For food for the family, 
Her brood, unwittingly ungrateful 
Urchins, unaware of the horrors 
Of the adult world, 
Of debt and obligation and duty and care. 
Finally, we saw it, it was there 
Before us, her story.  
What she had done 
For us 
Despite us 
With us 
Without Him 
Was remarkable. 
More remarkable still 
The way she hid it from us for so long, 
Did it all her self. 
Three jobs at once, I recall, 
Morning, evening, night, 
Just to keep us fed right 
In a grim little terrace 
On a grimy back street. 
He visited once to look around. 
“Christ, Rena,” He said, 
Which was nice. 
But she kept on, because she had no choice. 
She clothed us, raised us, 
Taught us many things 
But not everything. 
There are gaps in us all, we are not whole. 
Of course, it took it’s toll 
And her own inclinations caught up with her, 
Would one day kill her, 
But the wound that started it, 
The beginning of her end, 
Was the day that the last of us 
Left her house 
Forever.