Fifty-Three, The Fatal Number

An elegy that I wrote for my mother... it was assigned in Creative Writing, but it flourished into something quite different.

 

I sit staring blankly at nothing at all,

Blaming myself for unreasonable things.

I haven’t a clue what occurred in this place;

A blur; a whirlwind;

A rapid silent film repeating itself.

 

No sound, no noise; no laughter, no voice.

The house lie silent without its most important resident.

Shoes collect dust; she walks no more.

Scissors collect rust and hair grows wild

Without her professional hand

To guide the blades along.

 

The garden wilts under the cold, cloudy sky

Mourning for its caring mother,

Impatiently awaiting the day she returned.

A red rose stretches its gaunt stem desperately

Searching for some sign of the warmth she emanated.

Slowly drying and dying , it shrivels

Refusing any other helping hand but hers alone:

A hand that would never come. 

 

Her chestnut hair and deep, wise eyes

Are immortalized in photographs and memories alone

Her elegant hands show wear

Her posture, a ballerina’s envy

And her slight wrinkles show character

Character that cannot be replaced by any.

 

Her arms would wrap warmly in a maternal embrace;

I can almost smell her perfume;

Feel my head resting on her shoulder;

Hear my laughter echoing after one of her jokes.

Her humor, wit

Creativity unmatched.

 

And as I think on her, I lie here realizing

My mother of 16 years,

Very real and once very much alive,

Does not lie in a tomb or a coffin;

But in a container no larger

Than one of her small jewelry boxes.

 

People approach me and send me their sorrows,

Wishing it didn’t happen; hoping that I’m fine.

I nod and they turn away puzzled, bewildered

Wondering why I find it hard to reply.

Tears well up and I force them away;

Strength that doesn’t exist in my weakened state

Keeps me sane; keeps me alive; keeps me moving forward.

 

 

She was a woman of pure strength, I know;

She tells me that she admires me so.

I keep on going, trudging on through

Because I know she’d want me to.

Reviews

[xlynne]

your words and descriptions of her are amazing because their beautiful and full of your memories. you incorporate memories of your mother, and things she did and was around but still kept the poetry in it all. so sorry for your loss.

[Angie Jorgen]

I never knew your mother, but I believe I come a little bit closer to knowing a little just by the words and the images created in your work. This is just such a lovely piece, you have captured your sorrow, her spirit, the times that she was alive and the times so terrible after her death (well wishers at a funeral for example)
my favourite stanza
"No sound, no noise; no laughter, no voice.
The house lie silent without its most important resident.
Shoes collect dust; she walks no more.
Scissors collect rust and hair grows wild
Without her professional hand
To guide the blades along. "

beautiful. this is a lovely piece and you have enticed me to read more of your work.

[Krista Laraine]

just lovely.

[Katie Lynn]

sometimes assignments become something beautiful. I think its is one of those times