there is no rhythm to the remembering,
no time or space or elaborate calling;
I simply breathe and there it is, startling
and sudden like it had never left at all.
and there is no guide on how to mourn
the death of the living, this in-between
purgatory of not quite here, not quite gone,
just ripped from your tongue, a foreign concept,
a childhood that feels more like a dream than a
memory. and each time you try to recall you find
more details have disappeared, have faded,
have simply disintegrated, maybe never there at all.
faces too, symbols of a past life, a questionable existence.
but in the uncertainty, in the wondering, that’s where you
heal, if only because it’s the only place you can touch.
Magic Mama 