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I watched my mother, the bittersweet diamonds
known as tears falling down her face.
Her sadness is like an ocean that engulfs
us in its ice-cold blue.
She looks so fragile I fear
that if I lay my hands against her, she’ll fall
into pieces right before my eyes.
Needless to say, I am not used to seeing my mother in tears.
Because I am so young, I don’t have the
faintest trace of an idea on how to comfort her.
I can’t offer her wisdom that will make her view
my great-grandfather’s death
in a not quite-so-dark light.
I can’t tell her some philosophical sayings
on how no human is liberated from death,
that the lucky ones, like my great-grandfather,
experience a peaceful end in bed.
The hands on the clock mock me
Why haven’t you done anything yet? they ask.
I want to tell them I haven’t done a thing
because I can’t. My bones are
stone – rigid, still, inflexible stone.
But nevertheless, the hands on the clock
keep on mocking me. When I can’t handle
the ridicule any longer, I do the only thing my
youthful heart knows how to do.
I embrace her.
She kisses me silently, thanking me for the gift
of my liberating love.