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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Twenty years elapsed since Harriet Harris, née Kuritsky gave up the ghost ~ May 5th, 2004 Often these days the following genuine sentiment Matthew Scott Harris doth wish to share one son, cuz twenty years after mother succumbed courtesy of terminal illness that ravaged her body. I still reckon how yours truly shrugged off proffering tender loving care within whose womb, this sole prodigal son wannabe born, thus shouldered with self scorn and now two decades later, the grief and regret not so heavily worn, nevertheless I consider myself less familiar to thy mama than her hats (no surprise, she got known as the hat – trick - lady) on a rack (built by papa) that donned yorn head and trumpeted the presence of a free spirit. He (the writer of these words) clearly recounts as if her death occurred yesterday..., (when all mine troubles moost definitely not far away) last remaining grains sands of time. Imagine an hourglass where fine granules trickle from one to another (upper to lower) bulbed chamber just prior when coroner decrees death, yet an opportunity prevailed wherein said self (me) chose NOT to stand vigil at deathbed of she begat an older and younger daughter (mine sibling sisters). Last breath(s) expelled while mama tethered to machines, one or more helped diminish agonizing, depressing, and writhing pain and discomfort racked once fitness and health conscious industrious, tenacious, and vivacious body, which malignant terminal illness (no joke) riddled a former robust Arthur Murray ballroom dance instructor (think approximately threescore and ten years past), whose flirtatious demeanor instantaneously caught fancy of handsome twenty something papa at his prime. Before rigor mortis quickly stole precious lifeblood, and final minutes ticked away until countdown to... realm of absent consciousness scant moments before subtle transition slipped our beloved mother into deadzone..., neither final adieu, caress, grief..., nor poem written... never communicated to deceased, not an iota of sorrowful lament bequeathed, prevailed, relinquished... over lifeless body (mommy dearest) relegated limp suddenly cold stone body, where morgue aged (mortgaged) corpse interestingly enough principally kept in cold storage (despite aversion to frigid air exhibited by mama) preparatory to cremation process. Rather... suppressed resentment exhibited itself at 1148 Greentree Lane (partial listed then abode - Matthew Scott Harris, plus his family resided) by mister recalcitrant, felt ambivalent carte blanche blasé affection regarding once young bride, (who smothered cingular heir insync with dada i.e. Boyce Brandon Harris), cuz he (yours truly overstayed livingsocial under same roof as parents, which happenstance (in tandem with the Leiper's preference for their demesne plus one hundred acre estate called Glen Elm before being purchased by – I believe a local within Southeastern Montgomery County, Pennsylvania realtor named Donald Neilson, but do not quote me) situated at 324 Level Road. Both thee aforementioned supposed biological guardians railed, screamed, tormented (albeit verbally) yours truly, upon mine eighteenth birthday, when great expectations greatly exacerbating emotionally hard times, which ill suited poet de jure experienced, brickbats rained down upon these (considerably mooch younger) lovely bones whose anger (mine) smoldered linkedin to constant epithets of expletives out the mouths of those who begat me, subsequently their livid with rage tsunami festered within every holy Mole (he) molecule within mine atomized corporeal being manifesting itself as deprivation to embrace dear mama attended at hospital with both non twisted sisters; one hailed from Woodbury, New Jersey and the younger one staked out modest home within Bend, Oregon, meanwhile thee grim reaper did patiently scythe before soon nonchalantly heading back to his old curiosity shop, a rather bleak house, I now conclude.
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