Communion With My Dead Mother

Her cremated ashes still remain sealed in the same nondescript box white, powdery and chalk like material devoid of any vestigial semblance to her once living and vibrant self that unique persona pulverized and vaporized (housed former svelte and tall Arthur Murray ball-room dance teacher a half century plus prior to demise which beauty, charm and grace quickly caught the attention of my father who courted and eventually proposed to this young flirt and tease of a gal) inert organic matter now represents sole residual embodiment reduced to dust and near nothingness former corporeal being of blood, bone and flesh weighing no more than a few hatch marks on the scale absence still bears down heavy like some millstone round the neck per the black hole void created by defeat with Grim Reaper toward this woman who helped birth and nurse me into manhood momma’s only grown son still feels ripples of grievous sadness no matter the years of suppressed anger and rage in addition to emotional conflicts between us which invariably wrought unpleasant relationship and a legacy of discord writ large across the tapestry of my life! Force fields from this lithe Brooklyn native (whose pronunciation a dead ringer giveaway to any amateur and junior linguist) lives in the guise of aural spectra especially within the hallowed sanctity of Glen Elm domicile and continues to emit indomitable and unfading rays of pure energy and light!