May 1, 2025Storage Spaces
It seems like I was always on a Los Angeles freeway
when we’d talk about how her water was shut off
or the repairs she couldn’t afford, and I understood
that feeling of getting nowhere. The windshield
and chrome of luxury cars always flung sun in my eyes
as I idled in purgatory, and when she asked
if I had found a therapist yet, I said
no mom, have you?
When she’d come
to visit, my TV would prattle away afternoons,
and the QVC models would turn their wrists slowly
so studio lights could catch the facets of fake gems,
and I understood what it meant to be dazzled blind
enough to forget what lies behind us.
Sometimes I’d clear
paths through her home, sorting clothes into black
plastic bags, so many items still tagged. I understood
she was like that one black dress run through with silver
thread that hung in its sheath behind her bedroom door—
how it couldn’t know it’ll never be worn again.
I just wanted
her to tell me how she broke and who was responsible.
Instead, she’d go on about storage units in two states,
that she didn’t remember what they held but refused
to stop paying for what moldered in
those dark boxes.
A few items I’ll never wear
hang in my closet now—a dress and handknit sweater
in seafoam, her favorite. That pink sweater
she wore so much near the end. I get how hard it is
to let go. I understand how obscene
some metaphors can be.
from #87 – Spring 2025