Do you remember my climbing beside you on the sheets as a child? I’d have penciled poetry scrolled in hand, and I’d watch intently as you finished reading. Then you’d hug me, pat the corners of your eyes, and laugh at yourself for crying. 

There are now so many years between those moments, Mom. But you have never ceased inspiring me with your emotion and words. This passage is written on the very last page of my baby book. I hope you remember these words, as I have never forgotten how beautiful, truthful, and timeless they are. It reads, ‘John, call to mind each today; as your today will soon become your yesterday and your yesterday your forever.’ 

Mom, as of late, your words of long ago have only brought me to fear. The fear that what pains have afflicted the family will be inalterably cemented in my forever. So, in place of regrets, I’ve written something else to remind you that I’m here–as you must sense in your heart–I have never left.

~ ~ ~

I need you to know there exists an uncomplicated,

understood place in our minds. A small corner of internal warmth, if you will. 

A corner where tranquil phrases gather in silver clouds 

and beautiful words rain without fear of saturation.

It’s a place where truth is embraced, 

where what the eyes see is unquestionable, 

and what is unspoken can only be heard 

through imploded whispers.

Yes, it’s a real place, Mom. A place where space is absent~ 

where time abstains from passing. 

Dimensional; it’s divergent to our world where morality fractures

under the recurring weight of the misconstrued.

It’s a corner of our minds where no one resides, 

where thoughts merely visit, 

and answers unbidden remain on the table, 

face-up in fanned symmetry.

This place is not prophesied nor definitive to a sole beholder.

Although~ 

with an unassuming soul, I know these words scored 

are placed with the grace of God’s hand, blanketing mine.

I must warn you, there is nothing in this place to sustain life, 

yet your yearnings will be nil for as long as you choose to stay.

But, mom, It is here I’ve heard the authentic song of the Mockingbird;

unpretending, yet, ineffectual, as if it were trying to make sense of the silence.

Mom, I know now there is no one alive that can’t reach this place. 

Yet, whereas I am cloaked in its upward and outward vastness,

I see your image poised in its fractured twilight–

your forgiving gaze deflecting the unwilling and the wronged.

Each time I’ve revisited this place, it has taught me better to embrace 

who I am, who I’ve been, and who I will always be. 

Mom, it is here I’ve recognized the voices of petulance and 

promised to reignite the slow burn to forbearance.

The soft spray of phrase that will elapse the crusted bruises 

to yellow hues, 

and calming tones.

Now, as I sit, gazing around this place in the corner of my mind. 

I revisit the unspoken promises bequeathed to a mother by her son, wishing

you were here; listening to my voice of reassurance–

that this today will also pass, and we will rejoice in yesterday again.

I miss your warmth,

love Johnny