My mother used to be here.
She was here for a long time,
Then she wasn’t.
She was there in the fields, harvesting
And apple-bucking with Pop and feeling
The warm sun upon her cheeks and sweating,
But knowing the work was worth
Every drop.

My mother used to be here.
She was in Ponyville all her life,
Then she wasn’t.
She was there in the barn, wrangling
The cows and sheep at day and comforting
The newborn calves and ewes at night, bawling
Because they were young and everything hurt and they wanted it
To stop.

My mother used to be here.
She was in a palace,
Then she wasn’t.
She was in the farmhouse, telling
Stories of peaches and apples and mincing
Both to make the best jams and baking
Them to show us how to do it and use all
The crop.

My mother used to be here.
She was in paradise,
Then she was in the ground.
I know I should be happy with my lot and smiling
Sisters and lovely wife and farm that’s sprawling
Further and further across the countryside, leaving
Us with more than she and Pop ever had, and making
The best of the pain that should be finishing
Up now that I have my own family and casting
The yoke of somber desire into the same place she’s resting
With Pop.

But I can’t.

Because my mother used to be here.
She was here for a long time,
Then she wasn’t.
I wish she was here to see
The fruits
Of her labor.

Author's Note

This was the first poem I wrote. I thought it up when I visited the college where my deceased mother used to work and I remembered everything I did with her there. A certain melacholy came through me, and I decided to convey those feelings through Big Mac (who also lost his mother).

I initially approached this as a free-verse poem, but soon fell into a rhythm by repeating the title at the start of the stanzas.