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Ashes
January 19, 2021
When I was young
my mother knelt
by my bedside
to tell me a story.
In her island
she lived in a cramped,
one-bedroom apartment
on the outskirts of town.
Watched a small, boxy,
black-and-white television.
Reclined in her father’s
tattered old armchair.
Witnessed a deafening
boom.
She peered out the window
and saw the ashes
glowing like embers
falling
from the sky,
crimson leaves
in the heart of autumn.
It has detonated
inside me.
I hug my knees to my chest,
wait for the pieces to cool.
© Sherell B., Philadelphia, PA
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