My mother was a black hole,
A star collapsed on itself
Built into something greater.
She existed at the center of everything
Terrible and lovely,
Shaping our tiny slice of the galaxy
In whatever way she saw fit.
I can see, now, that she could not help but implode
Time and again,
Restructuring herself each time with stolen bits of the lives around her.
This is the nature of everyday, ordinary lives,
Even if nature abhors a vacuum.