Of Mothers and Memories

- jan-u-wine
The memory of her stays,

lost,

beneath all these others.
 
I search them,
seeking the last of her.
 
Her voice,
a faded echo,
 
curtained
by time,
 
is all which remains.
 
A lullaby gentles upon my ear,
 
soft, like whisper’d firelight,
and
 
leaves turn in bright-paged books.
 
Her arm gathers me suddenly,
strongly,
 
to her,
 
teasing fingers reach behind my knees,
tickle my feet.
 
A kiss lightens my brow.
 
Mumma,
after all the paths I have walked,
all the shadows I have known
(and been known by),
 
after all I have forgotten,
 
I remember you.