My mother was a seamstress

old coats and blankets
worn and washed until
the seams gave way
and mended haphazardly
to make them last that extra while
in remembrance of she
who gifted one and cut
and sewed other

Countdown

I bottle up scents
The  first night after
The  first fight and tears
First “I love you”s and “I hate you”s
The first fissures and poorly-made welds

I pickle parts
Of that living, breathing thing between us
Always on life-support
Knowing
Time runs out