we visit my mother lovingly.
red marble with black veins.
her name so strongly presented
in bold black letters
at the very top of the mausoleum.
my father and i do the sign of the cross.
in the name of father.
the holy spirit.
my mother’s crypt has everything.
a photo of when she looked like jackie sophia lauren at her most beautiful.
a small statue of jesus on the cross
nailed to the marble.
a bronze flower vase.
the silk flowers arranged for every holiday.
my father’s guilt of not being very kind to my mother is apparent in all that she has in her death.
the latest to adorn my mother is a statue of our lady of Fatima.imported from Italy.
thousands of dollars. She sits in reverence in front of my mother.
as i looked at my mother and began talking to her today
i hear a thump to my left.
like someone dropped something heavy
enough to startle you from talking to the dead.
my father is knocking on a nearby statue in disgust
“How could this be from italy?”
he knocks again.
“Sounds like plastic,” he says loudly.
my husband and i can only smile at each other.
as others stare and shake their heads.