In Which Language Do I Remember You?

Mother, in which language do I remember you then?
The language of our ancestors
Comes back to me only in fragments
Like broken pieces of memory.
I struggle with the gender of objects.
Are the bangles you wore a feminine object?
And is the leather bag a masculine one?
Do they care?
Is your absence a “she”?
Is your memory a “he”?

And what about grief?
Grief, to me, at times has felt like
A man struggling to differentiate
Between anger and hurt.
At others,
It has felt like a woman
Who has forgotten how to speak
About all that ails her heart.