Every day, for one reason or another, she is there. The most minuscule, the most trite and seemingly innocuous comment or occurrence will conjure her–and then she’s there, as real as when she was alive. My mother is a beautiful ghost. Gratitude to the Otherworld for not haunting me with a gruesome specter; I am flooded by images of her best days, her proud moments, her glow. Her end of days were far from the beauty she once was, but I don’t default to those memories. They do pass in and through, but they don’t linger. I am surrounded by, brimming with her Essence, intoxicatingly gestalt. Every day.
Every.
Day.
Into the Abyss... 