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Mother Mother

Updated: Oct 3, 2023

Finn Wagner - September 26, 2023

Photo - Finn Wagner

I lie with my feet on the couch;

my back to the lifeless frame

holding

what of you I have left.


Before me rests my newest task–

infinite pieces,

none fitting. I wonder:

Where do I begin a puzzle

if a corner is missing?


The pieces sit unbothered,

for they have never touched you;

But they will lie scattered, untouched

until my heart begins to mend.


Your urn is kept pristine

on a dusty mantle.

You watch your children

laugh and cry and play.

A death re-lived each time they pass.


In the corner, your favorite record spins–

scratching from overuse.

Your voice chases cars

and departs far too soon.


Your ticking hands

move in the cadence of my

tapping foot; circling a face,

day by day–

still dictating my routine.


Your hardcover books– no use

but to collect dust.

Their stories unheard because

yours was cut short.


I grab my journal,

as the Aspen-spiced candle flickers.

For hours I sit– pondering,

searching for answers,

but only questions flood the gates.


The thoughts pour from my mind,

smothering my candle,

condensating on my paper.

They ask:


If a house becomes

a home with family,

then what becomes

of a family without a home?

But only the Mother of time will tell–



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