We talk about the time before and we live in the time after
but there is not much that grows there anymore
Because nothing ever grew, but sometimes
We will run into people you worked with
When you still worked. These people are strangers to me.
I’ve told you over and over that I thought you were as good
as dead. I would pretend to myself some days that you
were already gone, that the sweaty, sickly, pale woman
in your bed was not you. Now, I go weeks without
remembering that you were someone before the tired and the hurt.
That you, my warrior woman, were someone before
You had to fight anything. When I was smaller, I don’t
think I talked about you much. I was never disappointed when
You couldn’t come to the concerts and events. I’d like
To accredit this to my selflessness though
I know it is only because you were a stranger.
I’m sorry that this was the case
I used for sympathy. Trying to build some sort of
narrative that I went unloved, but this is so untrue.
We are working to make memories, filling the fossils
Of the old ones. I know, everyone tells you
To reflect on the bad times and good will come of it
But my mirror is broken and no matter how hard I try
I just can’t put myself back that far.
Mother, I love you today. I understand how you fly through the world.
The depleted flesh and bone body in your bed
all that time ago was not you
Or, at least, she is not you anymore.