Finding Home

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...

  “This is the part where you find out who you are.” This. Here Where everything hurts.  Where nothing makes sense. This. Here Where there is nothing left of your heart.  But others say there must be some  if not so much more left This. Here Where you are  But the one who birthed you, taught you love Is not This. Here Where you made your choice Where your choice made you  This. Here Where you are alone Where you are loved  This. Here Where there is no taking back Where there is only grace and mercy This. Here Where you can finally utter, I’m sorry Please forgive me Over and over and over This. Here Where everything hurts Where everything finally becomes clear This is the part where you find out who you are.