I tell the lake she’s gone.
How she left. Her last days.
Last hours. Last minutes. Last words.
Until she no longer gripped my hand.
“My mother,” I tell the lake.

As the sun goes down,
long sentences, full of secrets,
fears, wishes, and loss,
flow out over the darkening water,
and every wave nods back.

The lake tells me,
I am here, surrounding you,
taking your measure,
weighing your songs and your tears,
and I will always be here,

so keep talking
about who your mother was,
and who you are,
my little one,
my tiny, fleeting love.