Spring cleaning smells like morning fog that lies on a blade of grass, Forming beads of dew like dollops of butter, Opaque and hiding the contents of Pink marmalade clouds, A peak of sunlight slivering the porch steps, A fresh pair of windows to draw pictures in the mist, The crunch when I bite into my toast and I taste spring like a syrup that lies at the tip of my tongue. Spring cleaning is when my fingers pry the creamy drawers of my closet, Inhaling the smell of an abysmal agony, And brushing loose strands of anguish of my old clothes, My touch leaks memories, My mind sewn and knotted with files. Walnut cabinets with a final glaze of dust and desertion, Fingers prying open knobs, Uncovering shelves carved into the subconscious, Cardboard boxes fruitful with postcards, Letters, Scrapbooks, Memories. A knotted maze of remembrance. Memories encased in plastic bags, Clinging to hangers. Resting on my palms, Weightless and lifeless. Most of them go in the trash anyway. I reach for the last single memory. Its weight crushes the fragile structure of my extremities, A shiver that reexposes wounds along my arms. Grief and longing encircle my fingers, My breaths draw a ragged and wounded line in space. My mother has moonlight eyes, Inhaling the serenity of the night sky, Starless and plain. Her thin fingers woven through my chubby ones, Like pieces of yarn in the crisp night air. The doctor had lenses, foggy with pity and a hidden guilt The wrinkles carved onto his forehead, The binding white of the room, White walls, White tables, White blankets, Cancerous lumps, Her pale, pasty white face, Blank eyes. When I follow the outer curve of the moon, Floating and buoyant on the calm tide of the night, Foreshadowing the coming of Spring, I close my eyes, Dropping that last bag into the trash. My mother’s name was Spring, And at night I can’t see the moon anymore, I can’t taste the night air like she did, Or hold my mother’s hand. Spring cleaning is a sharpie reminder scrawled on my white, stucco wall. A stain ingrained into the roots of hair, the cuticle of my nail, A burden that forms an unconscious bruise. I try to erase her memory, Clorox and disinfectant. But her moonlight smell lies deep on the painted walls, the curvature of the wood, the yarn of the rug, A constant reminder hidden in the crevices and angles of my memory, Puzzle pieces of reminiscence aligning. And her dirty smudge leaves a brown tint, Hidden in the hollowed edge of my heart.