seasick

today I am seasick.

my anchor snapped, 

slipped to the sea

two years ago.

it was a Thursday.

today it is a Saturday.

what will it be in 2043?

will I be?

I remember 

feeding you ice

placing the plastic spoon between your lips

letting the chips drip onto your tongue

while hope hung to soothe you

the morphine droplets hung like bullets

making my hands shake

and my heart splinter.

Grief still rattles in my ribs.

I remember 

picking cereal with you

pretending we were foreign

among the Cheerios and Fruit Loops

fake words, fake dialect

no ears (not even our own) could understand

yet when our eyes met

I understood: Raisin Bran.

I'd give this up

to have you push me in a cart

and watch you choose toilet paper.

'please pick something soft, Mom.'

memories arrive at random.

I prefer it so.

I like when you sneak up on me 

in the shower, in the car, in the kitchen, in my dreams.

but today

(and every today 'til)

I am seasick without you.