That’s the way I see my mother now—
in my dreams—not dead, but lost.
I spot her in a crowd
at some vast open-air market. I follow her
past long rows of vendor stalls,
never quite catching up. Sometimes she appears
behind the wheel of her car
in an endless parking lot—waiting.
Or a puff of grey hair suddenly moves
among the rotating O’s of clothing carousels.
I have left her in Women’s Blouses,
distracted by crock pots and couches.
I can see by the expression on her face
she is more than a little annoyed—
leaving her alone all those years.
I’m sorry I say, I didn’t know . . .
—I thought you were dead.
Well, she says, let’s go, I’ve been waiting
long enough. It’s time to go
home.