she's not there

your mother's birthday
comes.
but she's not there.
she's locked
in a place of staring
at her hands.
of lifting her head
at noise
or light, smiling
in a perplexed way
the way a small child
might. she's in there,
somewhere. she's young,
her hair is black.
she's strong
and funny.
she's covered in the joy
of her children,
she's playing
music on her stereo
in the small living room,
she's folding clothes,
she's washing dishes,
she's making dinner
for her seven children.
but not today, not
on this birthday,
she's not there.