The day she was buried
I remember a three-legged frog jump away
as the casket slowly lowered
random obstacles interrupt life
traffic diverted into unknown dark halls
A faucet drips in a lonely kitchen
missing the light of my mother
unprepared for death
sipping English tea
The backyard’s lost its youthful appeal
cutting through a jungle with a machete,
overwhelming pressure
of unreleased tears
I told her she was getting better
A black cloud hovers over our house
tied with a string
to a life that would rather not
My father grinding his teeth as he adjusts to the dark alone in this empty house together
constructing mechanical things he sleeps on the floor
cups his head in the calloused dirt of a workaholic’s paw
his ancient tool belt
hangs loosely on his waist
one screw driver
and a mind trying to escape
Easier not to remember
it wasn’t always this way
The house on the corner
with its neatly trimmed backyard
she dances in a field of clover
hanging sunshine on the line
dreams of her hardworking handsome man
getting home in time
I was holding her hand
the day she died
