PROSE POETRY
Who visits you, Mum?
Big hugs to anyone missing their mum
I wanted to write grave in the title.
But I couldn’t bring myself to write that
And your name in the same sentence.
Who visits you, I often wonder.
Does anyone else think of you?
Do they miss the sound of your laughter?
How your belly jiggled when you laughed.
How your hugs could fix everything.
How your cooking was the cure to any ailment.
I miss you, Mum.
I miss you a thousand times over.
I miss you with an intensity
That’s left all my other feelings behind,
In the race to consume my heart.
I miss you remembering my favourite food.
And making it for me, fine-tuned to my liking.
I miss you remembering when my big presentation is going to be.
And hoping it’s a success.
And bringing me tea and snacks when I worked on it.
I miss the free-flowing conversations about nothing and everything,
As you sipped on your hot, steaming tea.
I miss you answering my endless curiosities,
Mixing in some wonderment of your own,
That neither of us could answer.
Only ponder.
I miss warmth.
I miss your soothing smell.
I miss knowing I am loved without doubt or hesitation.
I miss being reminded that I’m good, in some way.
Even when every fibre of my being rebels against the idea.
I miss you buying me a sweater
Because I might be cold in the coming winter.
I miss the feel of your hands.
Nothing beats that sense of safety.
I miss how your hair felt in my hands,
Soft and frizzy.
I miss you so deeply
If I could drown in it,
I would.
And gladly never make it back to a reality
Where you are simply a memory.
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