A son remembers his mother in this poem

I call out to you today,
Seems just like yesterday.
The race to finish custard pancakes and coffee flavoured crust,
Air thick with merriment and steadfast trust.

I miss the selfless love, 
The non judgemental eyes, those dreamy treasure troves.
I miss the missed moments when you called out to me,
And I, oblivious of the powers of fate, pleaded, lack of time.
For those were the times when I was smitten by wanderlust,
The poverty of time rankled less.

You were the background of all I am, 
A backdrop now punched with holes.
Not nice round ones, 
But ones with snapping jagged teeth.
Cutting memories into misshapen fragments,
Life with all its entrapments.

Remember, when we fought for the window seat, 
Crossed swords for the TV remote,
Ceded grounds for temporary gain,
Both mastering the art of bargain.

All that remains is unfinished business,
Ghastly reminders of lost chances.
Guess you will never know the answer you so longed for,
“when do housewifes retire and what for?”

I saw you slip away in a formless form,
On towards a long journey,
Don’t know where to and where from.
Are there windows in your carriage?
Do you move with scared measured steps,
Or you race towards new beginnings.
Well soon I shall follow you into darkness,
And you shall see,
I will be dressed in my best clothes,
With clean nails and a smile this guilty son owes.

I could never say this then but now I do,
You had fight ma, you had resolve.
You lived well, right till the exit bell.

I couldn’t even say goodbye,
You left before I even tried.
there I was, watching you burn,
The scent of smouldering flesh and the sound of popping bones,
there you were, crossing the point of no return.
And I, consumed with false rage, reasoned there you go viral killers,
It’s your turn for hell burn.

I now scuttle through life like Prufrocks crab,
Carrying forward your imperfections,
With all its nuanced inflections.
Trying to outrun the long shadows of your silent impressions.

But you see me,
I know.
As a crow,
For I have seen you, everywhere I go.
You watch over my son, chasing shadows,
His pleased look, oblivious of all that is pathos.
and often I wonder when I see you both converse,
at this very moment,
how many mothers died and how many sons grieved,
and shall the number twain ever cease?