Listen to Sherod Santos read this poem.
"Face it"—this said with such urgency,
it's hard to tell who it is she's talking to,
herself or me—"I just can't live like this anymore."
Never more at home, I realize it's over now,
the gesture forged as finally as the front door slamming
(or my memory of it), and perhaps as well,
beneath it all, some inkling of the reason why:
It hurt for her to see me see what I couldn't,
in my heart, quite pity. And yet, across the lesser
distance of some forty years, she invites me
over drinks to think how hard it must've been for her.
And didn't I remember, six months later,
the note she'd sent me from that place in Maine?
"You mustn't forget I'm still your mother."
TODAY IN SLATE
The Self-Made Man
The story of America’s most pliable, pernicious, irrepressible myth.
Michigan’s Tradition of Football “Toughness” Needs to Go—Starting With Coach Hoke
Does Your Child Have “Sluggish Cognitive Tempo”? Or Is That Just a Disorder Made Up to Scare You?
The First Case of Ebola in America Has Been Diagnosed in Dallas
Windows 8 Was So Bad That Microsoft Will Skip Straight to Windows 10
Mad About Modi
Why the controversial Indian prime minister drew 19,000 cheering fans to Madison Square Garden.
You Deserve a Pre-cation
The smartest job perk you’ve never heard of.