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  • Writer's pictureWellington Lambert

Debris


Mother


My mother has a ghost inside her, nibbling on her past, consuming her.

When we speak, we time travel, am I here, or there?

The ghost tricks me. Smiles like my mother, laughs like my mother.

It is a shift, the mind preparing the spirit to take over, or the spirit preparing the mind for departure.

It is a secret no one knows, till it happens.

This may be the beginning of a new language. The communication of the soul, the part of us we have been trained to ignore, the only part of us that counts.

I sit in this world, the victim of my ego, an idiot sitting at the door of the great expanse, ignoring my own freedom.

I want to ask the ghost, why are you taking my mother away? But I want my mother to be free. I want her to be out of her body. I want her to move on.

So I tolerate its deception.

Her heart keeps beating, dragging her into the next day, month, year.

I want to tell the ghost to stop, or eat faster.




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