Mother's Room

If regret smelt of smelling salts, and Mother's favourite eau de cologne,

she thought it smelt uncharacteristically well. 

She'd spent all day nodding along to words of condolence(most of them insincere), 

Now sequestered in her late mother's room, she wondered, 

Did Mother ever dare venture out from the depths of her own personal hell? 

For what could've lived in this room, if not sheer unadulterated regret? 

Mother would've never stood up for herself even a day in her life,

her very last dollar she'd bet. 

She was always bruising up-each time in the most unexpected place,

-And Mother wasn't clumsy at all, she was a passionate dancer,

Aphrodite herself would've envied her effortless grace. 

Why, then, would Mother lie,

About that purple welt below her eye? 

Was it only perchance that these 'accidents' would coincide

On days Father came home inebriated, empty beer bottle in hand, at midnight? 

The daughter, wiping off a stray tear,

Chanced upon a tin trunk lying near. 

Must contain Ma's tarot-card-reading paraphernalia, she thought with a scoff. 

That delusional woman, she thought, 

Seeking a future in her crystal orbs and cards

When all the present ripped her heart apart with the sharpest of shards. 

Well, she'd been smarter than to get entangled in Mother's intricate web of lies, 

She'd flown the nest long ago, flourishing in greener pastures, 

surely what she'd done was wise. 

She forced open the box, she needn't have though

-the latch easily gave way. 

Ever since Mother had passed away, she hadn't cried

- it was as though all her tears had evaporated into some nebulous mist,

But looking down, moisture was stinging her eyes again, 

As if her innards were being gutted by some invisible iron fist. 

As the mothballs fell out, one by one, she saw a yellowed piece of paper, bearing a child's footprint. 

A polaroid showing herself holding out a silver medal,

The daughter remembered her penchant for fancy dress competitions- a rather embarrassing stint. 

A child's rattle, a report card from seventh grade,

A fluffy Cinderella gown she'd received as a birthday gift, 

Wearing which, all over the house she'd proceeded to parade. 

The daughter sniffed as she rummaged through these remnants of her past. 

The cologne in the room had till then felt like a rather irritating fragrance. 

Now, though, the melancholy quality to it carved canyons across her heart. 

She'd always thought Mother had a meek, rather submissive smile,

Today everything about that lady seemed to glow with an unparalleled vibrance. 

This room might've held some regret, 

but she'd been wrong by a mile, 

it also held hope, and above all, love. 

The daughter knew she sat at a crime scene -

and every piece of evidence incriminated her.

Redeeming herself would have to wait,

Mother was now beyond all cruelty, all abandonment,

She'd been tempted by the vice of self-centredness, 

And like a discompassionate fiend, had taken the bait.