my mother materiality

my mother’s hair is falling out. she collects it in handfuls, remarking each one before laying it tenderly in the small trashcan beside her bed. i looked in there, it gathering her. i cried each night on my visit home at pieces of her lost, mourning the her that is lessening. but she is everywhere in the house: loose strands, used syringes, imprints of her form on pillows, and the rhythm of the bodies around her.

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One thought on “my mother materiality

  1. this is beautiful, just like you. and it’s hard for me to read and hear (and my face is stained with mascara just re-reading something very similar from 2007), but I’m here (there) if you need me.

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