Depth away from home

My mother fell from a height into despair
and I cried. She is still there as I write.
She gives a description of the walls
as thick dark bricks, eighteen feet deep
into grief, thrice the depth for mortals.
Could that be the prize of being a fighter?
I’ve never been into a home of grief
this deep and long distance away from here.
There’s a scar behind me for my offshoots
to learn how to survive a fall into grief.
I had my first scar at eight.
The other came no distance afterward.
Mother has so many already;
I have an album made from them.
But she’s in another abyss for being alive.
Mother, what chases us should desist
after a long unfruitful chase. There are
balls of waters in my eyes as I write this.
I can only imagine how grief scourges
a body away from home.