Too Many Books, Too Little Time, Too Hard to Question, Too Easy to Forget

I can't be the only person questioning my reasons for being. It's taken me a long, long time to speak out. Even if no one answers me back, I know that I've done my part in opening the door and yelling at the top of my lungs.

38 Years of Forgetting

The Paris sun rose today

on a memory of another morning.

Mama was drinking her favourite coffee,

thick and sweet.

I was savouring my breakfast slowly

delaying the inevitable walk to classes

and bullying by the older and taller boys.

She was humming an old familiar tune,

a lullaby she used to sing to me at bedtime

when I was 5 or 6 and innocent and free.

It was the sun-sky  shades of pink and purple and

orange that drew me back to that morning

the last morning I ever saw Mama alive.

While I was at school, she died while scrubbing dishes.

While I was at school, my innocence was tossed away.

As the sun rose today,

I cry for Mama

and heal a little more.

© Catherine Woods 2017