My mother was lovely I-Miss-You-Post-It-Notes and letter,
a hundred missed messages, phone calls and emails.
all over the walls, she left them
stitched them into a red scarf
I know she will never wear.
The notes are gone.
Their absence made the house a catacomb.
she gets lost in it…
found her once in a room.
felt the unapologetic shudder
of her chest as she draped her arms around me.
felt a shudder. felt a crying. felt a numbness a seething
a gasp a apology in her shuddering.
She doesn’t have to say it, but like a broken
tape recorder she loops
“I’m Sorry.” And it loops…
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Five Home Depot Boxes wait at the front door like how ‘fuck you’
waits in your school locker as a note
waits for several periods as a boy
waits to grow up as a man
waits well past his 50s to be brave as my mother
waits to be struck as the boxes
wait to be opened:
lingerie, shirts, photos, albums, lip balm, hair dryer, more photos, more memories, antiques, reminders, even used tissue and hair follicles
scattered all over the floor.
My mother cried the way snow falls