Harriet Harris Nee Kuritsky Gave Up the Ghost May 4th, 2004

Harriet Harris, née Kuritsky gave up the ghost ~ May 4th, 2004 Often these days (closing in on the eighth anniversary of eighth orbit around mister sun), the following genuine sentiment Matthew Scott Harris doth wish to share how one and only son, remembers his mother cuz about eighteen years after mother succumbed courtesy of terminal illness he updates yearly a poem initially crafted when she passed away. I still reckon eyes how yours truly analogous to Atlas - shrugged off proffering tender loving care within whose womb, one zygote underwent gestation this sole male offspring born, thus subsequently after her demise, yours truly shouldered himself with self scorn. He clearly recounts as if her death occurred yesterday..., when all mine troubles (emotional, financial, and physical) moost definitely no more farther away then present moment. Tempus fugit popular worded couplet or imagine an hourglass where fine granules analogous to last remaining grains representing sands of time trickle from one to another (upper to lower) bulbed chamber just prior when coroner decreed death, yet an opportunity prevailed, wherein said self (me) chose NOT to stand vigil at deathbed of she who 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 figuratively and literally wracked and pinioned once fitness and health conscious, flirtatious industrious, tenacious, and vivacious body, dinged by a former carcinoma eradicated courtesy regimen of chemotherapy and radiation, which latter malignant terminal illness (no joke) riddled a former robust Arthur Murray ballroom dance instructor (think approximately sixty eight years past), whose coy and coquettish 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 out of misery (a veritable battleground) where she did silently rage 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 corpse kept in cold storage (despite aversion to frigid air exhibited when mama alive) preparatory to cremation process. Rather... suppressed resentment exhibited itself at 1148 Greentree Lane (partial listed abode - Matthew Scott Harris, where family of mine then resided) by mister recalcitrant, felt ambivalent carte blanche blasé affection regarding once young bride, (who metaphorically smothered cingular heir insync with dada i.e. Boyce Brandon Harris), cuz he (yours truly) overstayed livingsocial under same roof as parents, which happenstance situated at me boyhood home once located upon six plus wooded acres; 324 Level Road constituted the whittled down once sprawling Leiper Estate, which encompassed about one hundred plus acre wood home to Winnie the Pooh. Both thee aforementioned supposed biological guardians railed, screamed, tormented (albeit verbally traumatized) yours truly, upon attaining mine eighteenth birthday, when great expectations greatly exacerbating emotionally hard times, which ill suited poet de jure experienced, brickbats rained akin to fountainhead spewing painful pelting piercing poisonous pummels 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 me every holy moly molecule. Mine atomized corporeal being manifesting itself as deprivation to embrace dear mama attended at hospital with both my non twisted sisters; one hailed from Woodbury, New Jersey and the younger staked out modest digs within Bend, Oregon, meanwhile thee grim reaper did patiently soon scythe heading back to his old curiosity shop, a rather bleak house, I now conclude.