My mother's hands were small
Sunkissed and knobbed by arthritis
I can't remember the last time I held them
But I still remember
The cool thickness of her skin
And the texture of every crease
I don't remember the sound of her voice
But I remember the way she smelled
Like Diet Pepsi, Secret, and
That vague sweetness of diabetes
My mother is a collage of memories
Disjointed and erratic
And even as she vanishes from thoughts
My heart holds tightly
To every sacred second
YOU ARE READING
furthermore
PoetryA poetic diary of sorts. A collection of poems chronicling my depression, suicidal ideation, and my journey through therapy.
