I can see her, hands covered in flour, hair wild,
kneading bread, baking cookies, dancing
with my Daddy in the kitchen while
I peek from behind the sofa and
how she cried the year
Daddy bought her
a fur coat.
Sitting at the table making little satin dresses
with tiny pleats and ruffles and bows,
and that old blue Singer sewing
machine was the only thing
I asked for when she
left and broke
There’s a special place in heaven, I think, for the
mama who raises up her children on laughter
and tips, earned at the diner during the
midnight shift serving bleary eyed
customers who tipped just a
little better than the
Shining faces with milk mustaches eating
homemade bread with farm butter
and eggs and sweet jam that
Mama made, we didn’t
even know we were
poor until school
kids told us.
Dear reader, it has been 346 days since I lost my Mom and my heart broke into a million pieces. They say time heals, and it does. But I know, now, that I will never put my heart back together quite the way it was before because she took a small piece of it with her. But it’s okay. That’s where her light shines in.
We are all broken. That’s how the light gets in.
— Ernest Hemingway