Analysis of Where is My Mother?

Where is my mother in all these poems?
Good question. My father, who wouldn't
thank me for it, is outside the school railings.
And there in the backyard failing to teach me
how to box. But don't point, you'll embarrass him.

Aunts abound, gabby and gossipy, with stories
of the Blitz, mad neighbours, loss and religion.
Unsure of themselves, uniformed uncles drift in and out.
Like their fathers, buttoned-up and elusive. Grandads,
what accents did you speak with? Could you dance?

My grandmothers remain seated, amazed at their own
wit and wisdom, of tongues posthumously gifted.
Eyes closed, I count slowly to a hundred and listen
to my grandchildren hiding and giggling. In no hurry
to be caught. And my own children? What of them?

All there, four-square, out of harm's way
and long since outgrown my concerned musings.
And the one missing, my mother, where is she?
Memory fading, at the margin still, just out of sight,
The one I aim to please with every poem I write.