Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

Number 1

I watch him carry my mother up the stairs as if she is the thinnest piece of glass,

She is full of cracks.

I turn on the shower, a waterfall of memories.
Rubber ducks in the tub as we pretended to be mermaids.

My mother huddles in the shower, scared and unsure.

A
Wave
of
grief.

Memories of warm arms that once provided endless love now shake under waterfalls of grief.

And the rubber duck is somewhere in the endless garbage.
It mourns as it’s outgrown its usefulness.

I wrap my mother in a towel.
She shakes and shivers in the frozen tundra of Pepto-Bismol tiles.

As she dresses, I see the stomach that once created me, the body that once gave itself for my
existence.

Grief runs down my face,
silent heartache.

And she says, “Please don’t cry, I always hate it when you cry.”

Number 2

I nod,
the lump in my throat swelling like a tide that won’t break.
I press my face into her shoulder,
fragile now,
paper-thin skin wrapped around bones that once lifted me from scraped knees.

She smells of lavender soap
and something older,
something like the end of summer.

We sit in the kitchen,
her tea untouched,
hands resting on the porcelain mug as if it might fall through her fingers.
The silence isn’t empty.
It’s crowded with what we don’t say.

Outside, a bird taps the window,
confused, maybe,
or persistent in its search for light.

I remember her laughter,
not today’s tight smile,
but the belly-full, unafraid kind.
When her body was a shelter,
when her hands made magic from dough and crayons and lullabies.

Now I wipe crumbs from her lap,
a quiet reversal of time.

I whisper, “It’s okay to forget.”
But I lie.
Because every moment she forgets,
I must remember harder.

She looks at me,
not through me,
and I grasp that one solid moment
like a child clinging to a nightlight.

And when she says, “You’ve always been my brave one,”
I pretend not to break.

I carry her words like she once carried me,
a fragile weight,
sacred,
unspoken.

Number 3

In the morning,
I find her in the garden,
hands trembling over tomato vines,
the air thick with the scent of basil
and sun-warmed soil.

She plucks one, red and full,
holds it up like something sacred.
“I used to grow these for your sandwiches,” she says,
as if I could ever forget.

Back then,
her fingers were sure,
kneading dough,
flour in her hair,
the kitchen warm with rising yeast
and afternoon light.

She taught me how to wait,
how bread needs patience,
how basil bruises if you press too hard,
how tomatoes sing when you pick them ripe.

And one summer,
between sunburns and the scent of garlic,
she handed me a record,
black vinyl, sharp-edged,
Alice Cooper’s snarling grin.

I laughed,
surprised at her rebellion.
She only said,
“Even mothers need noise sometimes.”

Now, the bread rises in her absence.
I dust the counter with flour,
turn the stereo low,
his voice a time capsule,
a strange kind of lullaby.

She watches from the table,
basil leaves trembling in her palms,
her eyes wide, like she’s trying to remember
what rebellion felt like.

I bring her a slice, still warm.
She smiles,
but forgets to eat.

I eat for both of us.

Outside, the tomatoes keep growing.
Inside, I grow too,
learning how to hold what’s slipping,
how to love what is unfinished,
how to grieve with full hands