Mother, you said there would be moments,

heart stopping, time stopping moments

that trail behind me for years like a sick dog.

You braided my hair

and told me about your moments,

the quick turning of bicycle wheels,

fire reflected in motorcycle eyes.

You wished to guard me, to collect

tears in buckets before they hit the ground.

Mother, yesterday she told us about the pills.

Don’t tell my mommy flashed across the screen

and broke my face.

The boy with sand dune hair fell to

ruined grass and we could not catch his tears, but

he was ridgid when he told me.

My bones shattered, he walked away.

Mother, how can I describe the feeling,

that burning, aching feeling of not knowing,

of sobbing, waiting for a text to tell me

she’s alive?

I don’t want to dress in black.

I don’t want to give flowers to the dead.

I don’t want silver elephants

to weigh me down for the rest of my life.

She is spoken about in whispers,

when no one is around tears come in a hurricane.

Those lyrics run on repeat through my brain:

Something’s missing, something’s rearranged.

That was my moment, Mother.

Now nothing is the same.