(Depression, denial, reflection).

I am struck that every moment I spend with her can spontaneously be the last,

that this may be her last laugh,

her last sunset smile,

before I am left without her marigold soul.

Dusk and dawn are warring with each other, each to consume the time I'm clinging to,

because soon I will be older,

and she will be older too.

How am I to cope with that?

Maternity has stitched me together,

a multitude of times,

when I am caught flat in the crossroads of turbulence.

Mama, could you hold me for a moment longer, even if it scalds?

Brand me with your fingertips and I should not breathe a grievance.

On good days I can pretend you are eternal, but it is 11:30 in February,

and I can't help but fear that this is our last winter,

before Vesuvius erupts on our memories and you live on only in ash.

I am looking at the stars,

and they are burning my eyes,

you will fade out.

Oh, mother, let me be a babe again,

let me fight this sand falling over my head.

Can we pretend, just once, that you love me,

the way you loved the moon when it still circled for you?

I may never crest my legacy,

I may never climb the hill you set for me,

but can you still love me,

even as your eyes beckon me to triumph?

Love me, mother,

and I shall never cry a tear again.

Please, just do not ask me when I will change. Please, just tell me I am alright.

It is selfish, I know.

But I am not your golden daughter,

your eligible son,

I am the child bathed in blood and not baptism, and one day I will drown in it.

I hope I will still exist in your heavenly mirage.