Ambiguous Loss
It's almost your
birthday again.
Without looking
at the calendar,
I can feel it
in my bones.
The Aries.
The crocus.
The full moon.
I remember
all those years ago
when you turned
forty. I was
not yet eight
years-old, and
decided to throw
you a big birthday
party.
It was a Tuesday,
and a school night.
It seemed so
obvious and natural
at the time--
wanting more than
anything
to please you--
with no thought
whatsoever to
small details
like food and drink
for the 30-something
guests I had invited
to our house
on that early spring
evening.
I see so clearly
now, how I was
already full-filling
your need for
the parent-child
persona that would
ultimately become
an all-out conversion.
Are you happy?,
I wonder.
Are you okay?
Strangely, like a
mother myself,
I can still feel you
all the way
inside of me;
dwelling like an
ache in the
center of my belly.
A reminder,
I fear,
that your presence
and absence is
still burning me alive,
like an ember
that will
never die.
-Me
(With gratitude to the work of Pauline Boss Ph.D.)
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