The complete poemearlier and revised versions, in full
“Moving Forward”
Mornings I injected insulin into my dog
and made sure she had enough water in her bowl.
To see her in the yard, wobbling as she peed bloody urine, pained me.
Ethel’s pain was greater than mine though,
especially the times she collapsed onto the cold tile
or bumped into walls and furniture because of her thick cataracts.
One day she could no longer hold her urine,
so I bought diapers for her, which always managed to fall off.
I began carrying her when she had that look, helping her get quickly to the yard.
My mother said, “Can’t you put her to sleep?”
I said, “So when you become incontinent, I should do the same?”
“Guess not,” she answered. I’m my mother’s healthcare proxy.
Eventually I had to euthanize her, Ethel that is.
As I left the office, the young woman at the desk said, “Sorry for your loss.”
I bent over my steering wheel and cried for a long while, then drove out of the lot.
My mother, eighty-two, is losing her sight.
She tells me she depends on audio books and the largest fonts for her texts.
Her body is filled with metal—multiple surgeries on her spine, hips, and leg.
Someday she will die and I’ll visit the empty space of her apartment.
I will remember her resolve to move forward when I see the walker beside her chair.
How she listened to me, standing tall, and told me through dim blue eyes, “I love you, sweetheart.”
All of the living are broken, inside and out,
and the problems continue to accumulate.
It’s how we care for others, show love, and move forward
that helps us become whole again.
Each morning, I injected insulin into my dog,
made sure she had water.
Watching her wobble pained me.
Sometimes she collapsed on cold tile,
left lines of blood in the yard,
shouldered hard walls.
Soon she could no longer hold her urine.
I bought diapers that sagged and slipped off.
My mother said, “Can’t you put her to sleep?”
I said, “When you become incontinent,
should I do the same?”
“Guess not.” She laughed.
Eventually, I euthanized Ethel.
The girl at the desk said,
“Sorry for your loss.”
In the parking lot,
I leaned on the steering wheel
and cried.
My mother, eighty-two,
is losing her sight.
She listens to audiobooks.
Her body is laced with bars and bolts—
spine and leg remade in metal.
When I visit, she says,
“Move your chair close.”
Her fingers trace my face.
“How are things, my number three child? Are you happy?”
I pause too long. “All is good,” I lie.
We share a meal,
talk about the past,
watch the news together.
I watch the TV; she listens.
Light washes her face.
In time, my mother says,
“Is it late? You need rest.”
I tell her no. She wrings her hands.
“I enjoy your visits,
but they seem so short.”
We sit until her eyes close.
I touch her shoulder.
“Mom, time for bed,” I whisper.
I place my arm under hers.
She stands,
kisses my forehead.
When she dies,
I’ll see her walker
in the still apartment.
I’ll feel her fingers
softly trace my face
and hear her say,
“I love you, sweetheart.”
Journal text as printed in The Galway Review (May 2022). Revised text from Crossings.
All of the living are broken, inside and out,
and the problems continue to accumulate.
It’s how we care for others, show love, and move forward
that helps us become whole again.
When she dies,
I’ll see her walker
in the still apartment.
I’ll feel her fingers
softly trace my face
and hear her say,
“I love you, sweetheart.”
The journal text closes with a stanza of reflection that states the poem’s lesson outright. The Crossings text drops it entirely. The poem now ends on the mother’s walker and her own words, so the last voice the reader hears is hers rather than the poet’s.
Notice where the title went. In the journal version, “move forward” appears in the moral, explained. In the revision, the phrase survives only in the title and in a walker standing in a still apartment. The idea is still there, carried by an object instead of a sentence.
A suggestion. You might read a draft aloud and pause at the last line of dialogue or the last concrete image, and ask whether the piece could end there.