your mother is dying
when we started this room
i didn't know you at all, it seems
we taped the windows,
the doors,
the slow, sticky taping
you gradually began to unfold your story
to me
i smiled and taped
feeling the carpet on my bare feet
the fan on my back
and the sticky blue tape
your mother was always depressed
she was a pack rat
you couldn't wait to get out of the house when you were old enough
and we slowly taped, taped
i listened
we were to finish the paint tomorrow
it is slowly drying
but one short phone call
and your mother is dying
your words still stuck in the paint on the wall
the stories you told, mother and all
when this job is done
your mother will be gone
and i feel selfish, and helpless
because i stole that story,
the last story you will ever tell anyone about how your mother IS.
Published by Tracy
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2 Comments
Post a CommentSo sad !!...but beautifully told !!!
Beautiful and sensitive. I even like that you didn't dot the i's. It makes the story more important. There's a lot of power in the word "IS" as well. I love your writing.