In cars

I see her all the time
always in cars
driving.
Younger or older than she should be.
Brown hair, red hair.
Who could remember now?
They all pretend to have forgotten her.
Have they?
I follow her down streets I don't know
getting lost in my illusion.
It would never be her.
It couldn't be her!
Yet
I follow her always.
Tears glisten my eyes and apologies form on my lips.
I always give up
eventually.
They wouldn't understand,
those impostors of my mother!
She died so many years ago
I am ashamed I still search her out in crowds
and cars.
But I still hold on to the secret wish
that she will knock on my front door
and it will all have been some hoax
or mistake,
that she will be alive.
Sometimes I want to dig up that mound
I haven't seen since the funeral
just to see her skeletal remains,
squirming with plant roots and worms,
to get that closure
and stop following her in
cars.