Our Mother Died Expecting

Beckoned by grim and desperate voices,
We traveled through the dirt road, silently. 
We greet death profiteers and dried-eyed wailers
as they usher us into the one-room shack where
our mother died facing the door, expecting.
And we have come from the city’s aspirational end
To redeem the dust she left behind
She, from that tribe of women who traded sweat 
to buy us access into didactic spaces that promised
a portion in that section of the city where 
our desires lived. All she required was that we came back, 
in city-sleek machines to whisk her away in the full glare
of sunken eyes and envious hearts awaiting their turn.
She waited, expecting. 
We sent hope when money wasn't available to go
She sent back prayers, boasting to anyone who cared to know
About her sons who went after the rainbow 
And are soon to return with pots of gold.  But in the city
We rode storms. And rode them continually
Leaving us too tired to reap the golden fruits
Of opportunity they said the city grew
We hustled to the drumbeats of our mother’s expectations
Modern day messiahs, bearing the cross of an entire lineage
On our university certified shoulders, charged with redemption
The last time we spoke, over the phone, it was Christmas
And all I had to my name
Was a fistful of dreams and pockets bogus with shame
And so I promised to come see her in the New Year
A promise I remember now, standing here
Eyes dry, heart soggy, scanning the 10 by 8 contraption
That contains her scant remains
I can barely breath, afraid to choke on the lingering expectations
Of her poor, departed, longing spirit
And so I stand in this house of death
I who have come from the city with my dreams
To redeem the only thing that’s left.