SOMETIMES I WORRY MY MOTHER IS DEAD

My mother texts twelve times a day

I have grown accustomed to texting her

twelve times a day and today she has not

text me once. I worry she is dead. I worry

I will have to turn her ashes into a necklace

and wear it around my neck like a noose.

I worry I will look ugly. Grief strung. Pathetic.

I see my mother’s limp body, a leaf

resting on the skin of the sea. I see her

face in the Sunday paper, head-lined:

WOMAN KILLED BY ARSENAL-FAN BOYFRIEND.

I see Arsenal-fan boyfriend stabbing

Arsenal-hating girlfriend at half-time

and stuffing Arsenal-hating girlfriend

into the cleaning cupboard, and what

irony that would be! I think of funeral

songs and turn on Heart FM or

menopausal music as she calls it

and I think these are the moments

I will miss the most. Mother, with her

quick wit and stubborn tongue

who wobbled with me to Claire’s

after a day of drinking and finally

let me get my ears pierced and never

said I told you so when they got

infected. Yes, my mother, with

matchstick arms and a desire to keep

us all alight. My mother, who still

hasn’t told her mother she smokes

and never will. My mother, who

smells of smoke and Chanel and

makes the world’s best cauliflower cheese

who is now most likely dead

and I still don't know how she makes it

and I think, if I could ask her anything,

I would ask her for the recipe, and I think

It would mean something to her if I did.

And so I text her again and again

and again, still, nothing.

And then my phone rings.

Sorry darling, was just making a roux :)