Mourning Sickness

The bedroom door is shut, curtains drawn, lights off,

and the bed, inhabited.

My mother rests in its embrace

and has for two weeks, unable to leave the room.

Her body craves to hold her son again,

aches to be with him, and fights with

the reality that he is never coming home.

Fights with the reality that he’s dead.

The bed has become my mother’s home,

the sheets her clothes,

the comforter a heavy coat.

The pillow, a collection plate

for her tears.

In the dark, she screams at God,

a deep, guttural scream that begs to know “why?”

A scream that rips through her body

begging Him to let her die.

Thinks about taking her own life.

But then, her stomach lurches

and as she heaves into the toilet, for the fourth time,

the realization sets in and confuses her heart.

How can she celebrate a life

when she is still mourning a death?