19 years of pain, both fresh,
and wounds that linger on
way past when they stopped
being scar-tissue. I miss you
Mother. Some years are better
than others. This year isn't
one of the good ones. You
would tell me we should
pull ourselves upright, show
up to work; let that be structure
when your heart bones break,
your legs are tired of years,
and photos holding nothing
but symbols and keepsakes
for loss. I wish she had lived
to see me rise up from crisis,
finally alive, human, present.
She died knowing I was adrift
and she could no longer help.
She tried to give me apologies
from her deathbed. I refused
to let her feel she hadn't done
her job. What mistakes were
mine, were mine; I absolved
her as an adopted child should
(were they as lucky as I was),
"Mother, you were always just
like a mother to me, every way
that mattered." I don't believe
in Ouija Boards; I don't feel
we should assume the dead
yearn to do anything else but
rest and move on to whatever
is next. Mom, I'm ok. Missing
you just reminds me I'm alive.
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