My mother’s birthdays are always sad. She had mixed feelings about them; she was excited, they never lived up to the anticipation. The birthday parties required immense preparations, great expense and a lot of stress for everyone, but were something I had to endure for her sake, though I was less kind than I could have been.
This poem is the one that now encapsulates this day for me and, I think, for my sisters as well. For some years I found it unbearable to read and now I miss the time it was unbearable, hold onto it as though it is one more thing that I have lost.
Your Clothes
by Judith Kroll
Of course they are empty shells, without hope of animation.
Of course they are artifacts.
Even if my sister and I should wear some,
or if we give others away,
they will always be your clothes without you,
as we will always be your daughters without you.