Magritte’s Apple Explains It All
One glance at this canvas and I knew the answer
to the conundrum troubling my heart:
Why in the twenty years since she has left this earth,
has my mother not visited me in a dream?
Dreams, those moments when the conscious mind relaxes
when life’s everyday reality joins with matter deep inside
bridging that line between the known and mystery--
in that land of dreams I’ve often watched met, even talked with
my grandmother, father, aunts, and son.
All of these beloved departeds have spoken to me,
my son has directly addressed me more than once.
Only my mother has never appeared. Never even walked
across my mental stage as a cameo.
Occasionally, I admit, I worry that perhaps she doesn’t visit
because I did not love her enough in life for her to remain connected.
But how can that be, when I know I loved her then and still
love her very much?
In life, we laughed and argued, had much to say to one another.
I wear her jewelry, cook her recipes, , chuckle over her sayings,
and, regularly, even though its been twenty years, when
I open the drawers of her wooden vanity, the aroma of Youth Dew
wafts up to meet me.
Now, Magritte has helped me understand.
My mother does not need to wait for night, for dreams to return.
She fills my days in many ways.
She does not come in dreams because she has never really left
my waking moments.
She fills the room of my consciousness, my crisp green apple
of a mother, larger than life—even in death.
Joan Leotta plays with words on page and stage. She loves to write ekphrastic poetry.
The Ekphrastic Review
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