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With Love

Today is my mother’s birthday.
I count on my fingers the number of years I have been living without her presence.
Five. Hmm. I thought it was six.
Already I’m losing sight of her.
Her voice. Her peculiar expression. Somewhere between knowledge and fear.
And the exact color of her hair before the greys got in.
She is losing shape. I have trouble finding her outline – like an artist’s rendering of Ganesha on
the current spate of cards.
What I do see –
The slight tremor in my hands as I pass the hallway calendar with today’s date.
What I feel – a lump in my throat that begs explanation
What I sense – an absence in every room with or without light.