The Anniversary of my Mother's Death

Something I wrote on the night of the 8th anniversary of my mother's death.

There’s the whirring of the refrigerator

And the toilet water keeps running

Though there’s no one flushing.

I’m breathing, but just barely.

 

This whole living thing

Is almost mechanical,

And when it comes right down to it

I’m no good at it.

 

Because it’s those moments

When I can hear my stomach growling,

And I don’t care enough to satisfy it,

Because the sound is company

And company keeps the ghosts at bay;

If I’m listening to this, I’m not listening to you.

 

But during those in-between moments

When everything stops

And I stop

I admit to myself

How quiet it is here.