and a white butterfly perches on the railing of the window
as she washes the dishes after lunch.

she wonders out loud who it could be,
who it is among all those who had gone.

and as she is met with silence,
she douses the plates with more soap and water
and scrubs at them harder with the sponge,
hoping that the suds can rinse out
the salt of her tears.

earlier, as i was boiling water, i was thinking of how it would be more poignant if i were doing it for tea, to warm my hands as i cradled the cup wherein the teabag was steeping, or for coffee, to wake up to with my bleary eyes and sleep-rumpled face. alas, i'm boiling it for pain, pouring it carefully into a hot water bag with the steam blowing into my face, to soothe the ache that plagues mother, wishing it all away.