When my mother lost her life,
many years before her death
I could not cope well
and I cried in the garden,
as she did in the nursing home.
Never were we both so alone.
Then a butterfly landed on my hand,
I remember I thought it a kitschy moment.
It stayed there till my tears were over.
When I finally returned
to my mother, days later, she
who had never done any drawing,
drew what to me looked like a butterfly
on the steamed window.
She said it was a handkerchief
and I agreed. But it was a butterfly.
From then on, in other kitschy moments,
in leaps of time, in hidden meanings,
if I looked beyond, I found answers.
Now and then we understood
that words could move silently between us
like our thoughts. Her eyes spoke for her.
She had forgotten me,
but her body knew I was the child she carried.