Deprived by his wife’s absence, grieving guts My father. The cremation over now, Her ashes urned and glowing with repose, Inspection of her closet is the next Unmaking, contents intimate, perfumed. Attired in nightgowns longer than a year, My mother needed nothing stored inside: Complacent church clothes, pastel linen sheaths, Insomniacal sling-back heels, upright, Attentive, waiting for the toll of tread, Accessories forgotten, unloved, cold. Sharp hangers await uninvited guests, Prepared to scar. Should caretakers encroach, Conspirators rise: boucle knits scratching, Steel eye-hooks, belts resisting, stuffy air Redolent of her scent almost forcing The trespasser to leave belongings there, Mourned privately by what caressed her skin, The nude audacity of death dismissed As long as things remain, her door pulled shut.
This 20-line poem is from my WIP, “Cancer Courts My Mother.”
It was inspired by the long interval when I left my NYC life to be the sole caregiver of my terminally ill mother at my parents’ home in the Sun Belt.
This writing piece is so poignant, so lovely and so sad. Wonderful writing that pierces the soul and the heart. My mother has been gone 10 years and pieces of her, whether material or memory laden still linger in our home.
Thank you for your beautiful work. Simply put, simply lovely.