Rarely simple
in fact
at times
very complicated
with dark places
and shadows
and parts missing
...
still life
though
an enigmatic blur.
Being good took up all of my time.
There wasn't any left for being real.
I aked her:
Was I a good daughter?
She answered:
Was I a good mother?
Multiple iterations
of the same
interactions
in clarity and in fog
until death ...
and then
we do part.
She fell into that space
between
the in breath
and
the out breath ...
What are those sores
the ones still festering,
the ones in my heart,
the ones of an unsung spirit?
It's not clear;
it never was.
I never really knew.
And now
I never will.
A leaf landed
a moment ago
the wind blew it away.