Part of the grieving
is wearing her clothes.
Tucking her blouses into my own skirts,
wearing three-sizes-too-small slippers,
wrapping her sweatshirts around me
close.
The way I used to hold her.
My mother watches me leave my bedroom
covered in relics,
memories of saintly, tissue-paper skin.
My mother watches me leave my bedroom
and smiles the smile she smiles
when she does not understand me,
but knows
I understand myself.
This is beautiful. Gram knew you understood yourself. And she probably knew I didnt really always understand you. Gram never used 'quirky' to describe you. never.
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