Mum, I think of you often.

Hey mum, it’s been a while.
I think of you often.

Sometimes its when
I’m at work
in a meeting
where a colleague
is monotonously droning.

Or when I’m sat in a bright buzzing cafe,
on a Sunday morning,
waiting for my coffee to arrive.

Or when my empty bus home
rounds the final corner and the sweeping afternoon sun catches in the lashes of my heavy eyes.

In these moments, I catch a glimpse of a silver shimmer on my right arm.
Every time the same - I look down instinctively to see what it could be,
Every time the same - a scar where you gouged out a piece of my skin with your fingernail.

In these moments, I think of you
and I wonder what you look like now.
I wonder if you wonder what I
look
like
now.
I wonder - how many generations does it take to call this tradition?

Box of Echos - prophetx96

BE - drmariajestrada