My Mother Says

My Mother Says

Soft.    Soft.
Like your daughter tells her
baby as she pats your daughter’s
face. Lay your head on my
shoulder the way you
never did before
I died.

Place a hand on my left
forearm and squeeze the

pain of my passing from

your mouth. Deafening.

Tell me what it meant 

to be without a mother 

for decades.

How I denied my pain and wrung it into hatred for the others, who kept what I had lost?

Tell me how you tried to

carry on without me, as if

it were ordinary to be 

motherless.

How in a dark and secret place I cradled the ember of that injustice, kept it glowing? 

Tell me why my body in the

coffin made your legs fail,

your breath quicken, your eyes

run, your mouth moan the

sound of your gabbling

mind not wrapping itself 

around this reality.

How it was far too heavy to shoulder, so it crushed me?

Tell me about the others, who

would not allow your unbridled

display of pain.

How my grief splintered and spread, tiny shards of it shot throughout my body like a shattered dinner plate? See how they fester?

Tell me where you went, after 

my death, to escape the pain. 

Tell me how all the places 

proved hollow and temporary.

How I wandered, lost inside myself, my ego growing dangerous to protect me?

Yes. But don’t 

rush the telling. 

Let it burble out, 

like a shaded stream, 

and when you’re done, 

I’ll tell you the same.

Author: Mike Nichols

Website  |  On OMPJ

Photo Credit: Mike Labrum on Unsplash