Five Years Gone

for my mother

April 6, 2025

I remember the shape of your hand—

smaller than mine in those final days,

but still the one I reached for

like I was five again

and the dark was closing in.

You whispered “I love you”

once—

a threadbare breath I caught

and tucked away like contraband,

as if love had to sneak past

the broken places in your brain.

I kept explaining the tumor,

the surgery,

the stroke—

each time like we were starting over

on the world’s cruelest loop.

You’d forget,

and I’d remember for both of us.

Before that—

before the wires and tubes,

you were laughter steeped in green tea,

sharp-witted with a trashy novel in hand,

always three steps ahead in every conversation.

You didn’t just talk,

you saw,

and made me race to keep up.

We watched murder mysteries

like prayer—

popcorn and poison plots,

you rooting for Jessica Fletcher

like she was family.

You believed in angels.

Raphael was your guy.

I tried to believe too,

just to stay close.

I remember the body

you didn’t recognize—

the half-lidded eye,

the line of staples like a zipper

trying to hold you together.

There’s a kind of horror

you can’t flinch from.

So I didn’t.

I sat. I stayed.

When everyone else left,

I fed Dad, folded laundry,

played nurse and child in one breath.

Because that’s what you would’ve done.

It’s been five years,

and some days, I’m still holding your hand—

phantom-weight,

a tether made of memory and marrow.

You left me everything

and nothing I wanted—

except maybe

the strength to write this down.

—Kat Kennan, ©2025