Missing Mom

Thank God it doesn’t have to make sense.

I’m exhausted.

I can’t sleep.

I have no patience.

I get lost for hours on fifteen-minute tasks.

I can’t remember my cell phone number, or much at all, for very long.

I can’t forget one moment, of one phone call, in November.

I want to hide under the comforter on my bed, and not come out for a week.

I want the entire world to stop, and pay attention.

I want to hold on, to each item I own, that she ever even glanced at.

I want to change my job, my hairstyle, the color of my living-room walls.

I can’t speak for the pain of it.

I can’t stop my random chattering.

Thank God it doesn’t have to make sense.