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.