My mom died two years ago.
With her gone,
I lost my home.
I fly to the land where she lived,
and it’s barren,
Mute,
Sterile.
My mother was my garden.
Without her, there is
no water,
no soil.
Nothing but a thin veil of moisture
between her and me.
I stretch my arm to touch her
and feel her absence
as much as I did her presence.
Mom is gone.
Where is home?