Won't Be Known

​She asked me,
What is it, exactly, what bothers you about the end?
 
It wasn’t death, being final,
It wasn’t the details, being now so minor,
It wasn’t growing up in their home,
It was not being known.
 
I could imagine something,
But it will never be,
Not between my mother and me.
 
I could wish, for all the good of wishes,
I could dial up the phone,
Say it all in a nice tone,
I could reach for a depth, but she would be suspicious.
 
She asked me,
What is it, exactly, what bothers you about the end?
 
To not be known, is wrong, to me,
Wrong more so, with a child in tow,
And still, the cards in my hand, in her hand,
Is how it plays out in the end.