All those years

of trying to understand

which of this is her,

which of this is me?

Getting at the truth

was always so confusing

amidst her craziness;

how to separate?

And though the shrink said

Put her in a box—

I never quite could

until that Saturday

when the doorbell rang:

and there stood a man

thin and bedraggled,

dripping in the rain.

He held a clipboard,

a small warped box,

containing my mother

or rather her remains.

Sign here, he said,

and handed me the box.

Funny how this came

surprisingly unbidden,

though I've often wondered

if in a weak moment

I didn't wish for this.

But now that it's here

what am I to do

except to hold it close,

feel its roughness

up against my cheek,

and smell that terrible smell

of factory cardboard

now finally between us.