A Fragment of Mother

I do not remember.

I do not remember her.

-

The sound of my name in her mouth,

did it sound sweet or salty?

-

I do not remember.

Her.

-

I remember

throwing my tiny body at the kitchen door,

begging

to go to say goodbye.

Then running away—

she cannot go if I never say

“Goodbye.”

If I do not

let go.

-

I tried not to

Let go.

-

I remember

knobby toddler knees on a red pleather kneeler,

in front of a casket,

screaming when asked to say a prayer.

-

I remember

wearing her wigs and heels,

the smell of lilac perfume filling the closet.

Or were the lilacs

stenciled on her bedroom wall?

I do not know…

-

I do not know.

-

Was that before

or after the hospital?

The funeral?

-

I try to bring it back—

the memory,

her memory.

-

I have this one picture of her.

-

I beg and plead with my own mind.

I want to know.

-

Please.

-

I tried not to

forget.

-

But I do not

remember

her.

-

My memory

L

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t

G

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