I weep to hear
my mother weep
telling how her mother wept
forty years before,
not enough money
in her tin
to buy my brother
a wedding gift.

Thus are the
tears of the mothers
visited upon their daughters
through generations.

We blot the grief
from our mothers’ cheeks
with rosebuds and pansies
hand-stitched on hankies
by the needles of Eve.

Play notes: A family story, recently shared by my mother, is at the heart of this one.