Wednesday, January 30, 2013

The Mother

She is resting on my sofa.
I turn the music down a little.
She thinks I'm working,
But I'm writing about her.
She closes her eyes.
I look at her.
Every inch of her is a fractal
Of who she is to me.
Her nose is my Mother,
Her ears are my Mother,
The wrinkle around her eye is my Mother,
The apparent and elegant veins on her hands are my Mother.

But I also know
The woman she is,
The human she is,
And that makes me love
Even more deeply
The mother she is.
Not because she's flawless,
But because of her vulnerability,
Her mistakes,
Her profoundly human qualities,
Her reflection on life,
Her addiction to words.

I treasure when
She doesn't know
And ask.
When she imitates Woody Allen,
When she kisses my Father,
Dances with me,
Quotes Groundhog Day,
Cries when I tell her
About something that moves me,

Expresses her love
For the woman I am,
Tells me that the day she dies,
She just asks that CĂ©leste and I
Watch a Marx Brothers movie,

And laugh.

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