Thoughts on loss*

Every now and again,
my mom would say
“I don’t want to grow that old”,
meaning 81, like her father,
whom she found
dead in his favourite chair,
in the home she’d grown up in.

She is 63 now. I do the math
and feel panic
bubbling up inside me.

For that moment
I lose the ability to move, to think, to hold on
paralysed, I look at
my children’s faces
my children
who wouldn’t even remember her
because they are still so small
and, invariably, I cry.

Then I look at her
taking solace in her eyes,
her delicate hands and
solid body
and promise myself to stop
and remember, always to remember
this love.

*first published as a comment to this post.

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