Quieter, sadder, angrier, driven: my mother went
About her
days and nights. She spent
Hours
reading, dove deeper into her texts
Composed over
aeons by ancient, esoteric sects
Seeking to
plumb the depths of Healing.
A million
codices and crumbling scrolls dealing
With any
number of sicknesses that plague
All people.
Listed symptoms (specific or vague),
Hypothesized
cures (fraudulent, inadequate, toxic or true)—
She read
and memorized them all. Few
Were the
treatises, from the earliest scraps
To the latest
volumes—indeed, none, perhaps—
She hadn’t
read. And, locked safely away
From prying
eye and light of day,
She kept a
record of every word,
Line, page
and work that even referred
To her
burning question: could death be
Undone? Her
final answer has undone me.
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