Water Torture

I was eighteen when I first moved out,
My mum cried.
Six months later I was back.
Two years later I moved out again,
My mum cried.

I came and went so often
Her tears never dried.

Now she cries every morning when I leave for work.

Her face is wrinkled vertically.
Tears have worn grooves in her cheeks.

She stores them in glass jars and bottles
Like an emergency supply kit.
She keeps a careful inventory.

Every night I water the garden with tears
and carefully doctor the inventory.
It's the only way to slow the build up.

I'm worried one day the jars will crack,
My mother's years of tears will wash her away.

If she left I would flood our house with tears.