But she died in winter
I wonder, if there were words enough, words precise enough, could I pin it all down? Could I show you her? Or better yet, could I see this for what it really is? Could I describe and, by describing, know it?
As it is, this all remains in fragments. A dim, expansive, old apartment. Imprecise scarlet lipstick, still the bohemian scarf about her head. Mom leaning forward, repeating the stories with a smile and a touch on the knee. If only bittersweet was large enough to hold these images of "at least" in the face of death.
As it is, this all remains in fragments. A dim, expansive, old apartment. Imprecise scarlet lipstick, still the bohemian scarf about her head. Mom leaning forward, repeating the stories with a smile and a touch on the knee. If only bittersweet was large enough to hold these images of "at least" in the face of death.