Mom

I spoke of you today,
and the sadness fell off of my shelf.
It was thoroughly weighted
with memories
and shattered all about my feet.

I miss the little me
that would climb onto
your polyester lap and
sip at your milk and tea.
I miss your shoes that
sat on the floor, in the kitchen
by the coat tree, overloaded
with everyone's sweaters
parkas and random jeans.
I miss watching you read.
I miss the jello cakes you
baked for me on my birthday.
You always knew that strawberry
was my favorite,
with the whipped cream frosting.
I miss the smell of your
Winstons, and the sight
of your dirty glasses.
Your laugh was infectious,
and your corrective glares
even more so.
I miss the way you hugged me,
every time as though it'd be the last.
I miss you telling me not
to grow up so fast.
Now I tell my children the same.
But, I'm sure you know that.

I'm sweeping up the bits.
But sadness is hard to compile.
So, I'll just sit,
and sort the pieces for awhile.
They help me to feel like you're still here.
I miss you, Mom.