death belay

The day my mom died,
my life stopped being my own.
Each movement, breath, nuance
of my being
is her doing.

Two years now
it is still hers.
My house is built on her foundation
and it is her windows that I open
and her air that my lungs breathe and
her purse I tuck my money into.
Her hands type these words.
I swear my eyes cry her tears.

Suddenly and violently,
my life was not my own, but
just a continuation of hers;
as it always has been,
since my birth.
It was in her death;
I knew it.