She had mousey brown hair
Always in a bun.
Her hazel eyes turned grey at times,
And she got pink in the sun.
She stood taller than I;
Though I desperately tried
To grow that extra four inches
Alas my genetics determined
It would not be so.
Her hands were not distinguished
But rather soft yet common.
(I grew very well acquainted with those knuckles.)
Her body once lithe before childbirth
Became a homely pear.
Not much, you may say, to look at.
But there were days, I'll tell you,
When she was more beautiful
Than the red harvest moon.
The days on which she smiled.
Those are the days I search for
In my memory.
For that is all I have left of her, you see.
Just this artfully lacking description
Based upon fading photographic memories.
Nothing tangible.
Just this imaginable
Portrait of my mother.

I miss who she used to be.