You would’ve been 76.
Six months after your death,
I’m still stunned.
I’m just not in touch with what it means
to no longer have a mother
on the physical plane.
There are so many
reminders that: “Here is the woman
who brought you into this world.”
Now you’re gone and I still exist.
In each moment, I’m the one
continuing…
I’m not crawling
to the edge
of your countertop
anymore.
I’m not on the kitchen floor
waiting for an ambulance
after crashing face first
through the storm
door window, chasing
Crazy Chris through
the house.
You took me
to get stitches,
frantic with a
mother’s love,
how I was when Rudra
got hit by a car.
I can find myself talking to you quietly.
Sometimes we’re still arguing.
I wonder if you see now how silly
we were to fight like that.
I remember so often
looking over and the
rest of the family would be
shaking their heads like
“They’re absolutely nuts.”
I’m connected to you
in new ways.
That’s the
surprise.
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