OK, friendoftina...I read 'no rules' so didn't do it in poetry form...and then I see it's meant to be a poem...I'll enter it anyway just for the fun of it...and it has all the words you require woven in it...
She enters the kitchen via the back door. The only colour in the room, a withering potted violet, sits on the windowsill. She starts her conversation with one.
‘I’m surprised it’s survived; she’s not been here for weeks. Guess it could be viewed as the last remnants of her life. The kitchen looks like a bomb’s hit it and what’s that stench? That’s it, shit it stinks…’
Curdled milk sits in its container on the bench. She opens the fridge then the kitchen cupboards.
‘What did she feed on? Nothing, by the looks of it…there’s nothing in the cupboards as well. It’s like she knew she’d be away and didn’t do a shop, or maybe she gave it away, but to who? I’ll have to do some checking.’
Surveying her surroundings, she decides to sit; it’s overwhelming.
‘Her death brought an unwanted epiphany to me…god, her life will be mine if I don’t steer a new course. I’ve got to do what I’ve always wanted to do instead of drowning in regrets like she did.’
The propinquity of their relationship was to be expected; after all they were mother and daughter.
‘Fucking addictions have dogged us all our lives; gives weight to the theory they can be hereditary, be in our genes…bloody grog damn well killed her in the end. Humph, at least my lavish time with opium in Laos didn’t end the same way. That bloody time spent at Tham Krabok monastery getting clean was hell on earth but it saved me …you know, I thought after all those years off it, off everything, no grog, no ciggies, any addiction I had was gone, but the morphine I had to have proved otherwise. I should've told them about the opium…stupid not too…I don’t know why I thought it’d get out, that I’d loose my job because of it...had to fess up in the end; at least this time detoxing I had better surroundings but the fucking pain felt the same. Never again, I swear, never again. No bloody kids for me either, I’m not passing this shit gene on to anyone.’
She rises from her chair and starts moving things about.
‘I should've done this earlier, come here to sort through her house, her belongings, her life...it’s a bloody reminder of what I don’t want to be; I couldn’t face it, couldn’t face her...she’s all over this place, even now, after all these weeks…God, they gave me crap after the ambulance brought her in…phoned me with incessant questions…why didn’t you come with her...there was no ID, why haven’t you been looking after her…how could I tell them I was avoiding her, hadn’t seen her in months…still don’t know why I turned up that day…someone had to find her I guess…lucky me, not…fuck, she was my mother…I’m such a bitch…I can see now she wasn’t eating…anything. Just drinking. Didn’t she say Meals on Wheels was delivering? I can’t remember and what does it matter now.’
She moves towards the doorway to the lounge, turns and looks at the withered violet that seems to be on its last legs; she wonders if her Mum is saying a final farewell to her.
‘She’s gone. And I’m here to clean up the mess she left…literally…and to make something of my life so I can prove we both lived and it wasn’t in vain.’
© Kate Adams 26/6/16