#491 (mother’s day I)

Your motionless body

sinking into the green,

fake velvet of my childhood

home. The tiles of the oven

reflected a hint of your face,

impassive and cold like the

burnt down ashes inside.

My head full of  tales I lived

through and the one read

to me after lunch, lying on

the cot, listening for the other’s

breathing to slow down, as

mine never slowed, again

I had to fake it, daytime always

too bright to find rest. You

looked so sad, like a puddle

of sadness someone poured

onto our couch, the green fabric

absorbing all your tears, because

your face was dry, always dry.

Swallowing my words, I grabbed

your hand, crying the tears you

weren’t able to shed, the sadness

you weren’t able to feel without

breaking apart, I drank it all in

like those huge plastic sacks of

strawberry milk, my absolute

favourite. That day I lost part of

me. It just flickered and vanished,

gone like the coals in the long-cold

oven, I loved to press my forehead

against during hot summer days,

the tiles absorbing the heat and some

of the weight, your weight, that

involuntary gift, turned into a hollow

between my ribs. How that emptiness

in your gaze could breed such pain

that even the tiles weren’t enough

even I wasn’t enough, you could

have drained every ocean and it

would not have been enough on

that day you got lost in the

furniture of a long-gone home.

 

© Matthias Grupe, 10th August 2018

1 Comment

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