My auntie says losing a parent

feels like the sky has been ripped

from over your head

A gasping vacuum opens

and you learn to live with less air

than you thought possible
She coaches my mother through loss

alongside the other women I call khala

and masi and auntie, teaching her

the economies of breathing without

her mother’s oxygen
I watch my mother’s chest fall

and rise with this new rhythm

that rumbles and wheezes

through the wash of visitors,

rattles in her lungs at night

keeping her awake
I buy an inhaler, a spacer, teach

my mother how to breathe

lung-expanding mist

so sleep can find her, so she can face

the next day’s mourning
In the weeks after the funeral

in the crush of sympathetic murmurings

I hear my mother’s voice bend

itself around loss, stretch towards

language to describe her entrance

into a new motherless world
As the fortieth day approaches I see

her catching her breath more often,

hear the rattle ease and settle

as she stands taller by increments
When the prayer beads fall silent

and the sheets are packed away

she haunts the house

that still resonates with her mother’s

presence, takes as deep a breath as she can

and reaches once more

for the weight of my sky