Missing my mother
September is here again and I am thinking about my mother this week. Both pieces — a prose poem and an essay, are about grief, but are, I hope, optimistic. This one-minute story from September 2022 , is lightly revised.
She curls up on her mother’s white bed. The west window is open and the white gauze curtains breathe in and out with the late afternoon breeze from off the harbor. The low winter sun pours thinly into the room, reflecting on the white walls and white blanket as if on snow. It warms her shoulders, her back. The room is quiet, she hears only the lightly muffled traffic out on the avenue, a dog barking somewhere in the distance. She bunches up the pillow under her head and sleeps.
Her mother has been dead now, for more than six years. She is learning to live with the loss, but still, she comes to this room in the afternoon to rest. She sees her sitting there in the cane-back rocker, wearing the ragged red sweater that she will not throw away.
It is still her mother’s bed, her mother’s room, kept ready and waiting, on the faint possibility she might find her way back.
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