For a year I only wrote about my father.
Words steamed from my boiling pots.
I was a jug filled to the brim
with father thoughts until
one day they lessened
and lessened more;
until the very last words trickled
onto the page
and it was over.
I have not thought about him since.
All was said.
I am devoid of father thoughts
as if I never had a father.
Then the jug filled up again,
with mother thoughts.
Every day I wrote, 365 days.
Shocking how many mother thoughts
could fit inside this jug.
How liquid and fresh they were.
Every day I tipped the jug and fast rivers
of mother thoughts drowned the page.
Sometimes it seemed I would never run
out but I did. The day came when the jug felt dry
as baked clay.
I became a motherless person.
When my man died, he usurped my mind.
Everything connects me to his absence.
I have been under that thumb for so long
and I am afraid to stop writing for
won't that be the end of him, too?
Out of mind, out of sight?