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 hold her again, 

grasp who she was

Hold her realness in my hands

And maybe then 

I can breathe.