Mom

There was a comfort

knowing that I could hear 

your voice,

melt into your arms,

watch the shadows cast

on your face

and know how to bring

light into your eyes.

There was comfort in loving,

in living,

in a shared meal,

an anecdote,

in silent moments.

There was comfort 

I no longer find,

the one I felt in your womb 

or your gentle hand

on my burning forehead 

when I was sick.

I have no church or synagogue

to find refuge in.

I seek the museums 

of the world

where we once walked 

together,

I walk alone.

In their splendor

I feel you like a gentle wind

beside me,

urging me to see the magnificence. 

The art fills my soul

with curiosity and wonder.

I find you there,

loving me,

giving me the will

to find the essence

in the beauty of this life.