When I give her the scrapbook,
my mother touches his photo,
caressing his still-young face.
Pages turn slowly until she comes
across the proof she’d asked for.
She closes her eyes.
She closes the book.
She closes the wound—
memories that bleed once more.
Written for dVerse Poetics. Today’s prompt is to write about an object in your home. It must seem that I’m fixated on death these days, but today is the 70th anniversary of my father’s death in World War II. My mom asked me to research what happened and when I gave her the details she set them aside and told me, “I know, but I guess I chose to forget.”
National Poetry Month, Day 8