A spider dancing at the funeral

Something was a stumbling block in the face of defeats that could carve a path on my face. I was silent, looking into my mother's eyes, lines of age and exile that carved their way on her forehead, her understanding, and her cheeks, the apparent fading in her eyes and the trapped emotion inside her... I patted her shoulder, she is more in need of this act, I am lacking something but I give it. (I will try, Mama...) I said it with a trembling voice and tired eyes, all the memories piercing through. What if I really tried to leave an impact on my body, leave a mark, and set aside my sadness, and perhaps the worn-out cloak of conscience from too much self-blame over the separation, and I returned to how I was, and everything went back as it was, and I found that forgetfulness had folded me, and I was thrown into a black hole that swallowed me, my memories box, and everything that inhabits my soul.