My Mother Closes the Book
My mother died twice—the first
was the hardest.
Her eyes abandoned her
to shadow and distortion. Exiled
from her world of books,
she drifted.
We brought her audio replacements,
but she complained they shouted.
She missed the quiet journey
through hushed pages, would
sometimes turn them anyway,
fingers skimming every spread.
Near the end, she heard them
whispering. What do they tell you?
I asked her. Shhh—she said—
this one’s the Epilogue.