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.
