Listen To The Story
Hold out your palms
and feel it.
All of it.
The roughness,
sharp edges,
the imperfections
telling a story
only you
know.
Listen to the story.
Now tell it.
Breathe, Grief
My mother She kept everything: Notes handwritten on various paper pads Broken cups, worn-out pillows, Old handbags, cracked plates Love letters, greeting cards Curtains made of lace And here I was vacating, creating space One by one, garbage bags piled up "You need space to breathe," I told her She nodded, wordless, unmoving Her limbs weakened by the stroke she suffered just a week ago Her eyes watered in quiet protest Nine years later, And four years since she passed I understand now This longing to keep things To hold objects, to grasp As it reaffirms one's life, that one became real that one truly lived Now I want to take it all back, the things I discarded to make space for her to supposedly breathe: Notes handwritten on various paper pads Broken cups, worn-out pillows, Old handbags, cracked plates Love letters, greeting cards Curtains made of lace I want to cram the space with everything she kept Leave no space for air So, I can...
Comments
Post a Comment