All That Is Left

A poem written a little over a year after my mother's death.

Streets of allusion
Cloud my mind.
Turning the corners
I feel blind.
A drop of rain
A muffled voice
Within my brain
I have no choice.
I step on leaves
Their crunch is loud
My heart bereaves
That you’re not around.
A wafting of perfume
A curtain’s fluttering wings
A yellow, dusty dollhouse
Is all that’s left of my mother’s things.
I led your ashes, cold and gray
In a somber parade of two
Around the oak, now let me pray.
Finally you will have some rest.
You deserve some now
In life you gave your best,
Not just to me and family
But all who gained by their bequest
The answer to their every need.
You didn’t question what they asked
But set about in your own way
To do it all, whatever the task.
Never I’ll hear your voice so dear
Answering the phone
Your voice strong and clear.
But in my heart and soul you’ll find
you’ve gone to a place I used to deny,
A space within me, called, like of mind.