poem/Remnants

Remnants

 

Remnants of her are left behind.

Cheerios in a box

larger than her torso

Lime green tennis balls

forgotten in a corner.

Or neglected purposely.

The added ounces just enough

to make her cases unbearable.

Hair gel, abandoned in the bathroom.

Gooey, pink concoction.

Teenage finger paint.

 

Dirty items in my laundry basket.

Years of her clothing stained with blood and dirt

from sliding into Home.

The inevitable, tiny spots

of spaghetti sauce, she could

not eat without wearing.

Freshly folded sheets she loves.

Humble offerings from silent,

domestic rituals of purification.

 

Less tangible are other gifts she leaves behind,

in echoes of these empty rooms.

Child-like giggles that betray

the woman she has become.

Goodnight kisses when we sanctify

each other’s day and night.

Walks side by side on cobblestone streets;

Hand-holding, no longer allowed.

Sounds of words that hold meaning

only for us. A private mother-daughter language.

Defying translation.

Magical, bewitching moments

Of recognition and awe.

 

The tennis balls and goo are packed in tissue paper.

Shipped to that mysterious, alien Minnesota

that envelops her in its cold and snow.

But these other gifts she leaves behind

are sheltered by hands that guide the moon;

The tides of ocean and blood.

Endless ages of mothers and daughters

Giggling until attacked by spasms in the belly.

Kissing at bedtime; invoking a kindly spirit

To bless her sleep.

Holding hands, act of pure trust.

Protection against the crossing of streets in time.

Sweet words, language transcending vowels and voice.

Touch, and a glimpse into the heart,

Necessary for understanding.

 

These gifts of my daughter cannot be contained

By brown wrapping paper and sticky tape

sealed with a prayer against loss.

They are bestowed by divine favor,

And wrapped in a ribbon of ancient memory.