The Grain of Her Voice

I miss the grain of my mother’s voice and the rough callouses of her fingertips. The smell of Merit cigarettes and Cloret gum on her, the sweet, candy smell of her Estée Lauder lipstick. The gentle glow of her skin.

I miss her so much my heart dives into the gulley of stomach and I have no choice but to turn into a mermaid and swim into the depths of my soul to find her again, into the veil between realms that separates us.

A frustration at this yearning precipitates everything that I do. That she cannot call me or that I cannot reach her as I once did. That I must rely on other things. That I get goosebumps on my knees when I tend to miss her so badly.

And that other people can just reach out to their mothers on this realm, and do so, without burden. And that they can’t seem to fathom this kind of loss.