my mother is decreasing
she tiptoes barefoot about the house to not make a murmur of her existence
my mother is contracting
she nibbles at our leftovers until the morsels choke the base of her throat
my mother is dwindling
she has a shadow that attempts to detach itself and a reflection that strives to crack open the mirror
my mother is shrivelling
she is a ghost wearing cheap moisturizer laden skin over appendages that rattle when she moves and heavy studded jewelry that weigh her down
my mother is condensing
she cries but within time slots to not allow the full throttle of her sorrow to manifest
my mother is recoiling
she stands at the the edge of family photos so that one of her limbs is always cut out
my mother is shrinking
she has an arched back that curls more inwards as she makes up space for us
my mother is a frail framework of brittle bones and tattered tissues
she has nourished this house with enough love to call it a home but every corner has shackles the size of her withering wrists
her larynx is a morgue with unsaid words rotting like unidentified cadavers
my mother is one-fourth the woman she could be three-fourths the woman she had to be
she abandoned her heels to not look taller than my father
when she passed on her unworn heels to me she asked me in jest to tower over her
so I excavated years of generational expectations from in-between her vertebrae and asked her to straighten her spine
I told her that I will always look up to her.
