Your mother's, mother

She follows you from left to right
as you clean up her stone.
You are sure you could never feel alone.

As her eyes trace your outlines
you refresh her flowers,
leave a fig and light up a cigarette
for they were her favourites.
So much so that a new fig tree is growing to her left.
It seems we never escape what we truly love.

You never knew your mother's, mother
Yet somehow, she pulsates in your veins
you had no choice but to leave
at the delicate age of three
So, she never got to see you grow into the woman you came to be.

But it seems to be true in fact,
you remember what you cannot forget
It stays there, intact.
I do not recall her touch in the physical
Yet her spirit and love remain untouched in the mind.

A tear forms as you hear she’d never dropped an ounce of ink to paper.
Her children say she never left a signature on this earth.

But anyone that I asked said her signature was different.

She’d make you feel seen, valued and cared for. How many of us can say we have that signature?

She may have never dropped an ounce of ink to paper
but your mother's, mother was more than a sign on a dotted line.
She was an angel if I ever did see.
Her presence could calm a storm
Her touch could ease a baby's cry
Her heart stretched so far
and her generosity so vast.

Yet despite leaving her signature with everybody she did meet
her end was tragic and lonesome.
Her fight for full health was ignored.
Is that how it goes, then, for the ones that support all
Are they made to suffer?
Are they ever seen?
Are they ever heard?
Are they even a real being?

I was torn to hear about my mother's, mother
How did a little lady give so much and suffer for it?

There is something so immediate when meeting the dead
It is a bulletproof reminder
To stay close to the simplest things: Work, play, family, love.

Did you get that into your head?