Poem

I've never been a fan of poetry.  I usually don't get the similes and metaphors and other methods used to describe things.  It's rare when I read a poem and even rarer that I understand it.

I got the following poem.  I hope you get it, too.

The Smell of My Mother


It took me four years to gather
the courage to 
go back home 
after the death of my mother.


I never entered her bedroom.
I never asked what happened to
her pillow.


My father took their bed for himself
and I never complained.


The bed suddenly became 
his;
and his alone.


Now my father has died!
I am searching for her pillow.
But I never ask.
I never say
what happened to my mother's pillow?


He is dead now!


Why am I so frightened to
enter their room?


Maybe her pillow is still on the bed,
next to his.


Does the pillow still have my mother's smell?
I know his must have;
he just died
yesterday.


Keep their room closed.


Keep their smell there 
behind finished memories.


Is a forty-nine year old man
allowed to feel like an orphan?


Who sets the rules?
Yes
I am an orphan,
And I don't like it.


I miss the smell of my mother and
I cannot locate he pillow.


What happened to my mother's pillow?


by Dr. Ali Abu-Rahma