Every year September 8th takes us on more year from the last.
We age, like broken toys that are kept around for too long.
Not her though.
no this woman defined ageless.

My mother, on her birthday she lights up like a child.
We go to the fair and spend time looking at forgotten things.
like wolf blankets and cleaning supplies no one will buy.
We get lost and hope that one day we will also be forgotten.
Forget about it.

Every year her cheeks would stretch out like green fields on a warm summer day.
Beautiful and full of excitement.
Her eyes dripping with pleasure from a family mended through a date on the calendar.
The sons only fighting when mom didn’t know.
Because no on fights on moms birthday and gets out alive.

Two years ago. September 8th came around.
Mom rolled into the fair on the wheels of cancer alone.
They creaked through the fairgrounds with a hollow echo that year.
Her cheeks, droopy with chemo. Her eyes help open with attempted happiness.
The air on that day stood still. Our palms, sweaty. Our hearts, broken.

Every year on her birthday I am reminded of how happy we use to be.
I entered the fair on my oiled up kneecaps and the courage of a lion.
As brothers, we walk through the fair.
Looking for things we can’t forget. Like wolf blankets and cleaning supplies we want to buy.
Anything to fill the emptiness.

Every year, september 8th takes us to a memory of what once was and will forever be a day of her.
We age, like toys that she watches down upon to ensure nothing breaks.
Yes, this woman defined us.