my inheritance

mother gave me all she could while she was alive.

from my birth until her death, i was met with a steady supply of her love, time, affirmations, and resources.

even now, six days from six years gone,

i still find the remnants of that love. present and true, though laced with uncertainty and conditionality.

it seeps through my inner ear when needed most and needed least.

the place where should be only self is often

mother.

her voice once rang clearer in my mind, but now, i hear mine, carrying her words.

she is

permanent tenant.

fixture.

for better or worse,

imprinted.

to think of the time she made for me is only to make more for her!

because what else is loss but love repurposed? my thoughts are her invitation. my stories are her presence.

but how does one reach below or above or behind or through the stalls of our linear experience? how does the past come to be here?

through memory, though fickle. so

i made my spirit an altar; i visit daily.

our moments i cherish most become my totems, while

embodying her devotion becomes my offering.

i remember her

so she can stay.

and what of those words of hers, the ones that haunt in ways that only a mother's could?

some kind, some harsh.

her truth.

where does all that misplaced hope and projection sit in my body when it's not at the front of my mind?

gluing my hips, throttling my pelvic floor, crushing my chest.

but incisive wit, a sharpened tongue, and a mind to discern their use are also her gifts, so

good humor softens the trickier endowments.

her open heart provided for me, no questions asked; of all the lessons, this one i learned the best.

a three-hour drive to visit was more time to plan recipes she could prep and leave in my freezer.

(always concerned i didn't eat enough.)

a fronted bill was an excuse to call and tell me the money had been sent.

(that four-word text needed to be a four-hour conversation.)

i feed my community and loan money when there is money to lend and to always call my friends.

she taught me all of that.

she lofted my ideals.

so much that i often strain to touch, even strain to see, but

how else could i decompress this rigid spine and stand so tall if not for goodness that she taught me was well within a practiced reach?

how else could i train my eyes to discern between a heavily-trodden path and the right one?

how else could i find my breath in this sinking body beneath a rapidly flowing tide if not for her generous lessons in depth and absurdity?

mother gave me all she could while she was alive.

when mother died, there was no inheritance.

"more debt than i knew," father once said.

i didn't care, i had already claimed the indelible,

worth more than any estate:

her legacy.