For my Mother

In the shower, I thought of the most poetical things imaginable. It was all for my mother. Now, as I sit before the screen, I am met with a concrete wall. I take it I'm too tired to properly express such things that bounced back in forth in my mind and played off of my eyes. My eyes are glassy now, red, maybe.

I'm going to do it, though. Not tonight, apparently, but some day soon. I'm going to create one of my greatest masterpieces. After reading poet Natalie Diaz's book of poems about her brother's addiction to Meth and how it affected the entire family, I feel the need to achieve a similar accomplishment. It will be in honour of my mother, whose life was cruelly snatched from our loving hands. It will be for all who can relate- who know that veil of vapour which smothers the nose and mouth and chest, impossible to shake off. It will be for me, so that that greatest horror that stops my pulse, that fear of forgetting the little things I will always love about her, may be there in front of my eyes to read and remember in those blackest nights.