Why didn’t you tell me she was 45, too?

You told me to follow her,
confess, reach, sing.
But how far?

From the inner coil
of a child beaten mid-phrase
to avoiding the knock of bitter ancestors,
was my story
to be a whisper (not sung-
even crows would strain at the edges)…
or could the minutiae be rich
like a glaze on a cake,
the details of my spinning memory
a delicious antidote (anecdote?)
to save myself?

She put on her mother’s coat,
turned on the car,
and died.

But I am fighting that dream to oblivion.
To live the excitable gift.

I am 45, reaching for tomorrow,
sometimes at the expense
of today, since so many yesterdays
sucked color away.
I can fill in the spaces myself now.