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Mother’s Mother

A reflective poem about family, memory, and loss, exploring the speaker's complex relationships with their mother and grandmother.

Mother’s Mother

Mother’s Mother

My mom says I remind her of her mom—
something floral, mixed with the burnt edges
of a joint. I was always scared of her wrath,
the kind that would blotch her face red,
but sometimes, other times,
she would sleep, peaceful, like someone who forgot
what memory felt like.

Today, she’s not angry.
She’s just hurt, caught in the web of a lie.
If anyone were to ask her about me,
she’d say that I hold everything close,
clutching it until there’s barely room to breathe.
She’d say my skin’s tough,
rubbery even.

I lie to her more than she knows,
but one truth I can’t hide is the dreams.
I’m always in Grandma’s house,
knowing she’s gone.
Knowing her body is somewhere in there,
though I never look.

I use her bathroom like we used to,
me and my cousin,
play the piano keys in her sunroom,
rocking in her chair,
making it screech beneath me.

If she were still here,
we’d share our stories,
the ones about my mom,
her ever-changing daughter.
We’d talk about how we love her
and hate how we can’t escape her.

But now, I play the part of mom,
try to convince her she’s okay
after taking too much,
hold her hand when she says
she feels like she’s falling apart.
I tell her she won’t die,
but I’m not sure,
I don’t know death.

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