Her eyes are brown, dimmed with misuse -
bloodshot, another sign of the abuse.
A small light ignites as she hands me an old journal;
pride of the past dubs her almost maternal.
My mother doesn’t write too much anymore
gone long before I even walked out the door.
And so through her words I trusted as true,
I recreate the woman I never knew.
My eyes catch on every word,
savoring the thoughts I have never heard.
I flip pages like the grains of time,
If only I could truly hit pause and rewind.
Her crumpled history clasped tight in hand
has finally allowed me to understand
I write to preserve myself for a future day
Ink dried, I shall not fade away.