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      May 1, 2025Sonia GreenfieldStorage 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

      Sonia Greenfield

      “I love you, Mom. Thank you for letting me go and for all of your encouragement. For putting books in my hands. For believing I could do anything.”