At first I started this poem with—
You left your mark on me
Like a footprint in sand
But no—
You left your mark on me
Like a footprint in wet concrete
For it will take more than a wave
To wipe it away,
Though I've tried and tried.
With waves of my salty
Tears
I tried to remove you.
I am still trying to remove you.
About the Creator
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson4 days ago in Fiction
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