The Art of Moving On

The Art of Moving On    The birds were chirping, bees buzzing, cars zooming; The world was moving on after she left us. When my mother and I finally hauled the stubborn door open,  the aroma of the 1930s rushed past us. I half expected to hear a tremulous, "There's my little girl!" Her presence still lingered in the quiet house, Upon rosy walls and ceilings. We found the trash bags and entered the tessellated kitchen. The light bulb in the fridge shone on nothing but my mother's leftover spaghetti  we tried to feed her. Nothing else. We searched the house, spirits dropping with every step we took. We emptied creaky cabinets, dusty drawers Full of polaroids and old preaching tapes. A conflagration of grief and fondness washed over me  when I picked up a timeworn picture of a real, radiant grin blessing her face. Sapphire dress, fur coat, curled hair, next to her husband. I didn't realize tears racing down my face like a cascade until my mother handed me a tissue. My mind occupied with crystalline memories that made my legs go numb. The sun shifted everything's shadow. Not a trace of memory was left in the house when we were through. The house is encompassed with tranquility. My mother wrapped a knowing arm around my taut shoulder. We left for home.

This poem is about: 
My family


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