In My Mother’s House

(1999)  

My mother is gone.  I stand in her kitchen

feeling out of place: The other woman

in my mother’s house. With the absolute terror

of an infant I watch her favourite TV programmes,

greedily open her mail, breathe in the dusky scent

of her clothes, her perfume still lingering. 

I stand in her room, gaze upon treasured photos,

icons: the Madonna and Child, place her mail

in the tacky pāua-swan souvenir letter rack

awaiting her return. I cannot bear to remove

my mother’s ornaments, long hated like the harsh words

between us these past weeks.  My mind flicking

to another time: At the airport: last-minute purchases

at the NZ shop, it’s try-hard Māori souvenirs; 

my mother taking my face between her hands,

kissing me, both cheeks.  She looks at me,

eyes brimming love and pride, I want to

reassure her, it’s only three months, I’ll be fine. 

I may be a grown woman but in my mother’s eyes

I will always be her child.

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