The Mirror of Truth

This day is whatever you make it:
A tick of the clock, passing unnoticed,
Or a deep tock, solemn as ritual.
On this day three years ago my mother died
Taking with her my link to the past,
A kindred spirit gone forever.
A year on I cried;
Two years on I forgot;
Three years on I practice remembering
This day is what you make it,
If you remember nothing else,
Remember that.