She was a moth
Silver and ivory. 
The smells of recipes filled my nose. 
That’s how I knew she was home
That’s how I knew she was well. 
I’d get out of bed 
No hesitation
And fly like her, to where she was. 
Debussy was my favorite alarm clock.

She’d fill my belly
Prepare me for the day. 
When I was young,
I never wanted to go to school
“Staying with you would be better for me”
I’d say. 
Sometimes she gave in. 
We’d dissect the dictionary
Collect rocks along the shore. 
Make visits, recite shows 
She understood me.

I woke up late one morning 
Too late.
The house didn’t scent
But solitude and silence 
Created a void. 
I became waxy and old
As I flipped through
My dictionary searching 
For a word to fill it. 
She was gone
And I was alone for once 
Stoned with ash.

Eight years old
I remember
I came home to the buzzer
Echoing in my ears. 
Tortellini in the oven. 
Debussy on the player. 
Valse Romantique in F minor. 
My mother dancing in a golden apron,
Beside the window. 
The view of the mountains
Outlining her steps.

She was always a natural woman. 
Never afraid to reveal 
Her organic well-being. 
She believed in a covert current 
Excreted from the earth.
An upward motion of energy
Through your body, to the stars. 
“That’s why we dance.”
She said. 
“There is no motion that isn’t moved by something.” 
Her crystals and garments
Flew from side to side
Living entirely with gravity.

She collected crystals
She collected stones of all kinds
She would spend hours 
Under a light
Examining the curves 
Looking for some kind of galaxy
Within them.

She wore opal crystals 
That day in the kitchen. 
My last faded memory of her. 
I can’t even hear the 
Sound of her voice anymore. 
Only disjointed squeaks
And moans of my mind searching
Itself for another memory. 
I can only remember the sound 
Of her crystals hitting her body
When she danced. 
Living entirely with gravity.