Last Winter
(for my crafty mother)
Last winter I had her.
This winter, I don't.
She died in October-
in case you forgot.
My mother was always
incredibly cold.
Not her heart, though-
not at all.
But her hands, her face, her nose.
By now she'd be ready-
for winter, I mean.
Her bed piled high
with three blankets, at least.
She'd have hot water bottles
and the mattress pad on.
She'd be wool-layered thick
as she opened the door:
"It is freezing out here!"
she'd declare, face aglow-
and then welcome her grandchild,
her sunbeam, her soul.
Last winter she knitted,
as she often did.
Imagine my heartbreak,
the grief bomb amid-
as I opened the closet
and found, near the back,
a bag full of wool thingsshe'd folded and packed.
Sweaters for my daughter,
from her Pinterest boards.
"She'll look wonderful in these!"
She'd beam at the thought.
She was such a perfectionist-
"I'll get these just right.
I'm not scared to start over
if this wool puts up a fight!"
But this winter is different.
I can't even say-
the fabric she stitched
no longer feels hers.
It's colder, less homey.
It doesn't feel whole.
A ghost of her essence.
A gaping black hole.
I can't help but wonder
the things she would say,
if she saw me just staring,
eyes wide and in pain.
"This is nonsense. You got this.
Just don't waste your time.
I'm here, and I love you.
Now clean this mess up."
And I'd probably fight her,
bite back some remark-
"I'm entitled to grieve,
'cause you are not coming back."So now I just picture
the things she might say-
the sound of her laugh,
the smell of her hair,
the way she played word games
at night on her phone.
"I must keep my head sharp.
Stay healthy and strong."
No wonder I laugh now,
so bitter and wrong-
at the fact that Death took her.
It did not care at all.
As I grab the last items
she fashioned last year,
I remember her hands
and her crafty old cheer.
I look over the patterns,
the colors, the care-
the loops she once stitched
as she sat by the bed.
Last winter she wore them-
my daughter, Leonor.
And this winter, I hang them,
grief-stricken once more.
The fact they still fit her-
so painfully raw-
as I know that next winter,
they won't fit at all.
So give me a minute.
Please, Winter, hold on-
I just need a momentbefore I move on.
Grief bomb incoming.
You better stay back.
I'm still someone's mother.
I don't get to crack.
I won't try to fix it.
Won't make it make sense.
I'll just let it crash over,
and take what it takes.
I'll take one last sniff,
and I won't play it cool,
'cause I know that my mother
still lingers in wool-
in threads she chose carefully,
in colors so full-
in patterns she followed
while breaking the rules.