This time of the year always reminds me of my mother
More specifically, of
her dying slowly and painfully
In a way that no one
deserves to go (least of all her)
This time of the year
reminds me of how much I miss her
I am trying to
remember the good times, the miracle she was
But everything I’ve
come up is as frayed and distressed as the
Bottoms of the then
fashionable jeans we had that she so hated
All I can remember
reminds me of how much I miss her
Her smile—shy and
quivering, like it was expecting to be scared off
Her long-slender-bony
fingers—and how they felt on my forehead
Her voice—more
specifically, her voice calling out my name
Oh and it hurts how
much I miss her
Some days I fool
myself with a fantastic mirage of her
Imagine walking into
the kitchen to find her standing
With her tall back to me,
her long neck bent over some chore
I wish I could wrap my
arms around her, tell her how much I miss her
I wonder whether those
whose lives she touched ever think of her
Her way of taking on
everyone’s aches and pains, absorbing all
And making it her own, of comforting those with no hope of comfort
But whether the world
cares or not; I do and I miss her
My eyes miss watching
her move around the house
My body misses those
long ‘it’ll-be-okay’ embraces
My mind misses the
belongingness it found in her
Every day, every day,
every day, every day, every day
I miss her
