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Mother dearest Harriet Harris, née Kuritsky gave up the ghost ~ May 4th, 2004 Often these days (early May 2021) the following genuine sentiment Matthew Scott Harris doth wish to share one son, cuz seventeen years after mother succumbed courtesy of terminal illness. I still reckon how yours truly shrugged off proffering tender loving care when grim reaper in close proximity to mama supine and nearly lifeless within whose womb, this sole son born, thus shouldered with self scorn. He clearly recounts as if her death occurred yesterday..., (when all mine troubles moost definitely not far away) last remaining grains sands of time. Imagine an hourglass where fine granules trickle from one to another (upper to lower) bulbed chamber just prior when coroner decrees death, yet an opportunity prevailed wherein said self (me) chose NOT to stand vigil at deathbed of she begat an older and younger daughter (mine sibling sisters). Last breath(s) expelled while mama tethered to machines, (thwarting heroic measures) one or more helped diminish agonizing, depressing, and writhing pain and discomfort racked once fitness and health conscious industrious, tenacious, and vivacious body, which malignant terminal illness (no joke) riddled a former robust Arthur Murray ballroom dance instructor (think approximately sixty seven years past), whose flirtatious demeanor instantaneously caught fancy of handsome twenty something papa at his prime. Before rigor mortis quickly stole precious lifeblood, and final minutes ticked away until countdown to... realm of absent consciousness scant moments before subtle transition slipped our beloved mother into deadzone..., neither final adieu, caress, grief..., nor poem written... never communicated to deceased, not an iota of sorrowful lament bequeathed, prevailed, relinquished... over lifeless body (mommy dearest) relegated limp suddenly cold stone body, where morgue aged corpse kept in cold storage (despite aversion to frigid air exhibited by mama) preparatory to cremation process. Rather... suppressed resentment exhibited itself at 1148 Greentree Lane (partial listed abode - Matthew Scott Harris, plus his family resided) by mister recalcitrant, felt ambivalent carte blanche blasé affection regarding once young bride, (who smothered cingular heir insync with dada i.e. Boyce Brandon Harris), cuz he (yours truly overstayed livingsocial under same roof as parents, which happenstance situated at 324 Level Road. Both thee aforementioned supposed biological guardians railed, screamed, tormented (albeit verbally) yours truly, upon mine eighteenth birthday, when great expectations greatly exacerbating emotionally hard times, which ill suited poet de jure experienced, brickbats rained down upon these (considerably mooch younger) lovely bones whose anger (mine) smoldered linkedin to constant epithets of expletives out the mouths of those who begat me, subsequently their livid with rage tsunami festered within every holy (Molly Q. L.) molecule within mine atomized corporeal being manifesting itself as deprivation to embrace dear mama attended at hospital with both non twisted sisters; one hailed from Woodbury, New Jersey and the younger staked out modest home within Bend, Oregon, meanwhile thee grim reaper did patiently scythe soon heading back to his old curiosity shop, a rather bleak house housing our mutual friend, I now conclude.

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