She died in her bed alone,
Upright but slouched over,
Clutching her broken heart.
In an austere apartment in Corona,
With few earthly possessions,
Some butchered pictures and Elvis memorabilia.
My stepfather found her.
I always thought it would be me.
It was the first time I ever felt sorry for him.
It had been ages
Since we’d seen each other,
Since we left or were told to leave
Depending on where you get your stories
And what you choose to believe.
I thought of my mother everyday.
I felt bad for her.
It’s my thing, you know, feeling bad.
I wrote countless drafts of her eulogy.
Which always seemed a horrid thing to do.
I mourned the living.
She scribbled tear soaked letters to me
In a book I bought her, I read them posthumously
And now I have an urn I can’t bear to fill
And a good night’s sleep is impossible.