We rallied round
after her husband,
our father, died,
figuring we were
a link, a connection,
a shared memory.

But we were a past
they hadn’t shared,
and she was a life
we weren’t a part of,
twenty years the mistress
before Mom died.

We held up our end
with photos and phone calls,
but without that natural
attraction interest wanes
or the effort is too hard –
and to what end?

Had she ever wanted
to know us in the first place?

So easy not to reply
to the last letter sent,
having the last say
by saying nothing.