​

My mother had her secrets.

She kept them close,

like she kept my flower offerings.

But now the vases are empty,

There are no falling feathers to distract me.

 

No adornments grace our table,

the guests have come and gone.

 

I no longer hand her flowers,

those once collected and pressed,

now existing as memory,

are now in her company.

 

My mother's box of thread remains untouched,

the stitches remain uncounted,

the spools still lay organised,

each colour matching a number,

an unfulfilled rainbow of promise.

 

The last stitch has been sown

Her eyes and shoulders now rest.

 

My closet now holds mostly cotton,

Just as soft and smooth as silk.

 

Her large brown bowl sits empty,

with only a promise

of cakes and bread

Will her voice now direct me,

through every step?

 

Will I hear whispered words,

with flour covered hands,

will I watch my hands,

follow the ghosts of hers

kneading the dough into bread?

 

I am still becoming my mother.

There are always more threads

to stitch together.

But that binding fabric has loosened,

and we have reached the end of the spool.

 

I wrote poems for my mother,

watched her forty thousand hours

and some.

 

The words I heard her speak,

have now faded into whispers.

But the echoes of her voice

still ring in the hallway

of my mind.

 

We have reached that dreaded silence.

The fountain pen capped and too still.

Will I forever still look for her letters

containing the promise of more to come?

 

My mother said she dreamt

of those she loved, who had already gone.

The week she left, I dreamt of her.

When I told her, she gave reassurance,

but she never made a promise.

 

She and I both knew,

 

forever

 

would always come too soon.

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