My mother,
small thick and
sixty-two this year.
I know her advice on daily measures
resonates much deeper than I admit;
always seeming to pry at that
lone heart-string.
Sometimes, when I am home alone,
I go through her things;
her old photographs,
her high school yearbooks,
her letters;
and I read them.
I imagine her this way:
young, like me,
and in love,
married,
driving a babyblue
Volkswagen Beetle,
telling of how it was the
best car
she ever drove;
the American Dream.
I like to think
my mother
was a pin-up girl instead;
her peroxide hair
glowing in the sun;
the summer of 1971.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 12:12 PM UTC
My mother,
small thick and
sixty-two this year.
I know her advice on daily measures
resonates much deeper than I admit;
always seeming to pry at that
lone heart-string.
Sometimes, when I am home alone,
I go through her things;
her old photographs,
her high school yearbooks,
her letters;
and I read them.
I imagine her this way:
young, like me,
and in love,
married,
driving a babyblue
Volkswagen Beetle,
telling of how it was the
best car
she ever drove;
the American Dream.
I like to think
my mother
was a pin-up girl instead;
her peroxide hair
glowing in the sun;
the summer of 1971.
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