Death of A Mother

by Janay Cosner

Hospice called. My mother is dead.
“Thank you and thank God!” I cry.
Her ashes now under a cactus in Arizona.
Why is she frowning at me in the mirror?
Her bee-stung lips buzz with noxious words.
“You’re not smart enough, not pretty enough,
not good enough, not…”
I want to crack the mirror into smithereens,
slice my wrist with the shards,
take my blood and write, “Leave me alone!”.
Somewhere a building topples.

I play scenes in my head,
press PAUSE, REWIND, and PLAY
over and over and over again:
You never hugged me or said you loved me.
You skated with many men when daddy was in the hospital for years.
You faked cancer to get attention.
You never recognized my successes as a teacher and author.
You ditched the family and moved to LA with all of granny’s money.
You did not attend your only son’s funeral.
You adopted a Walmart greeter to replace me.

Finally I see the big picture of abandonment.
The enormity engulfs me.
I feel it tickle the back of my throat,
Slowly pour through my insides like mercury,
moving faster and faster before it settles in my gut.
Alone, I lie on the ground let the frost from the grass
soak into my clothes, crawl over my skin,
wrap me in a cloak of ice, protecting me from all the hurt.

But soon the sun appears, and I rise,
my fist in the air. Every step forward in the present
a leap toward freedom from you. The past – a bomb!
Bam!