8 ways I remember my mother

Posted on April 14, 2017

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1

Wanting desperately

to share with her everything

I knew would make her happy

things we had in common

things I knew would make room

for itself inside of her heart

little ways I could write my name

in her heart beside them

“this came from me”

 

2

A Marlboro red freshly lit

the smell of burning paper

tobacco

a woody smoke

tendrils slipped inside my lungs

 

3

The specific shade of red

made when you ferment grapes

and sell the juice in a box

that does not come with a straw

“this juice is for mommies”

 

4

Sushi Sundays

just the two of us

at the table by the window

we’d always order the same things

 

5

Watching your back

rise and fall

as you slept

another night spent

at the dining room table

 

6

The sound of a cellphone ringing

ringing

ringing

ringing

ringing

ringing

“why do I pay for a phone if you won’t answer when I call?”

 

7

The light glistens off the broken glass

like diamonds freshly excavated

from our kitchen cabinets

broken on the concrete

of a hallway stripped of carpet

leading to my bedroom door

 

8

Every day I loved you

but never enough

and wanted to hate you

but never enough

and never forgave you

“I’m sorry” was never enough

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Posted in: Poetry