Venus De Milo

The Millworker’s Daughter

My memories are soft and fading, like pictures drawn with fingertips on your skin. But I remember the carnival. You tied a blue balloon to my wrist, mocking motherhood, when I said I was lost and needed to be found. And it floated high above my head.

I still remember other things, too. Random things. Like driving through the forest that summer. You were smiling out the window and the sunlight flickered in your hair like a movie reel

And how carefully you spread cream cheese on your bagel and those quiet afternoons when you hummed songs in the shower while I made the bed.

I remember how we laughed until we couldn’t breathe and how you sat on the toilet while I shaved.

And how you cried

I remember that night at the carnival when you said you put your heart in that balloon and tied it to my wrist and told me to keep it until mine was fixed.

But most of all I remember the sweetness in your voice and how you read song lyrics and quotes and chapters from books when I couldn’t fall asleep…when all I wanted to do was fall asleep forever. 

You saved my life, you know

Or maybe you were just a passing lifeboat and I saved myself by climbing in

My great grandkids put glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling here and mapped out the constellations.  I told them you were up there, somewhere. My friend from long ago. A raw and flawless block of marble, hoping for Michelangelo.

I’m older than dirt now (I think you’d be eighty-two). But I still remember how your eyes sparkled in the cold

…like diamonds

And how much I loved you.

I’ve tried so hard to untether this balloon from my wrist and let it slip away. But I can’t.  So if you’re passing by my dreams again tonight, please stay.

And forgive me

And this time take me with you when you go.

-Oliver William Ray