Memos from the Middle

Smack-Dab in the Middle of Motherhood

The Wooden Lamp

The dust and cobwebs
in the corner
shimmer
in the dull, orange glow
of the wooden lamp.
The stale air
of the locked room
hangs with neglect
and sadness.
There’s something sinister
about the antique mirror
reflecting the horrors
of the silent house,
and I wonder
if she’ll ever gaze
in it again
and smile.

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