With My Mother in My Chest. My Chest

Eight AM, I wake in my father’s home with my mother in my chest.   My chest (filled with my run-away money & my goodbye notes & my hidden crinkled pictures of us) that I forgot at her house & accidentally left open on my windowsill.   My windowsill cluttered with her books & her sentiments & her slowly dying plants I seldom watered.   Seldom watered like the city's cold concrete gardens & our deserted affections & I always stared at them, the plants, wondering when the leaves would finally fall, like I, the apple.   The apple, like I, fell in her shadow, still plump & ripe with inherited aspirations.   Inherited aspirations being the unknown beginnings & untimely ends & unforeseen middles.   Unforeseen middles being “I’ll see you tonight!” to “I’ll see you next week,” to “Will I ever see you again?” & lastly, our infinite unspoken grievances.   Unspoken grievances & faded, calloused garden hands & finally leaving, like she had, to wake 
with our mothers in our chests at eight AM.