Unmothered

I find the remains of three weeks of hovering over a cell phone in my purse. Each hour of each day of each week is a glitter flake. You are not in the glitter. You are not in the pill case where I keep my pain meds. You are not in the half-empty packet of gum I stole from your dresser. You are not in my purse. I check my pockets, and they’re empty. You are not in the sock I found under the bed, inside out. You are not in my glasses case, and neither are my glasses. I do not see you when I look for those glasses, which I find next to the keys I lost an hour ago. Even with my glasses on, I do not see you anywhere. You are not in the laundry basket or under my pillow. I have nowhere else to look for you, the woman who mothered me all my life. I have lost you for good, I know it. You are gone.

published on The Wind Phone