Memorial for a Mother Not Yet Dead

I have her cup complete with chip,

Crazed pattern,

Nothing too ornate, just prissy pretty

In its annoying details.

I used to think how ugly

A whole set would be

And now I have it—

This one runaway, surviving piece …

Some mornings,

I’ll sit within the grayness of a winter’s day

And hold its warmth

In my cupped hands,

Drinking up memories

Not all unpleasant.

I compose

A memorial to a Mother not yet dead …

We never did get on

But like old irritations,

You miss the niggling pain

When it’s not there.

The cracked cup holds her laughter,

Never nice,

But precious like the piece

You meant to mend.

My elderly mother,

An old cat

Curls in uncomfortable places in my head,

Filling them with her presence,

Leaving her scent.

Look around—

The imprint of her lingers,

An impression of her fingers,

Strands of hair,

Fine as fur, cling to upholstery.

I pause.

Brush them off—

The evidence of her is gone.

I cling to bits and pieces

Of what was there …

And treasure one crazy cup.

J.R. McRae