I have misplaced some things
in my life. It all started
when I walked into the living room,
and watched my mother cry. I asked her why,
and I don't remember her
response for I don't remember
understanding. I remember

what she was wearing.
How her hands were light as snow,
so I guess it was late winter. How she melt into
the middle of the couch, its fold between
the grey cushion seats became my loss of memory. 

Through all the years of watching her sick
and sicker, and manic and more manic,
I held onto this image: a strand of her long brown hair
tucked in the corner of her mouth, wet chin, crying there,
while telling her child, "It's going to be okay,"
and sinking deeper in that old couch. 

There were so many days she laughed so loud it hurt. 


my own
Karen CygnarowiczComment