We slide on our bellies
through the thick, blue carpeting.
All the fragrant whispers of footsteps past
stinging our noses: cigarettes and incense,
the cat that died, the fallen blueberry crisp;
all these ghosts still alive in economy flooring.

I bring my finger to my lips as we approach
the threshold, quieting you in case of stray
squeak or cackle. We cannot disrupt the off-chance
that something miraculous exists beyond the closed
doors of our parents' bedrooms.

What mysteries are kept in here, the drawers
of forbidden bedside tables or pendants
wrapped in handkerchiefs of ancient namesakes.
And as we crawl through hand and foot like whales
unsure of land, the secret opens and unfurls like
a peeled nectarine. It is not buried in the yellow trunk,
or tucked away beneath the bed. It is plain as day
and glimmering with light cast off from a sliver of curtain
swept aside from the sliding glass door.

It is only my mother sitting at the edge of the bed,
all shadows and holograms and tricks.
How raw it is to see her here like this, loosening the piles
of hair atop her head, unraveling her braid and brushing out the knots.

It is the biggest mystery of all,
the existence of our mothers unattended, how
quietly their worlds unfold when the day is through,
when the children are asleep.

I watch her with a crux of sadness in my chest
that I don't understand and it does not feel right again
until she catches us there, crossed-arms and scolding,
hair put back into place--

that she might live, in separate rooms,
another life completely.

10/15/2015

Posted on 10/15/2015
Copyright © 2024 Lauren Singer