In the restless spring of my twenties,
Mom boarded an overnight train bound
for my latest address, resolved to help
me settle. She tossed off her mules, puffed
on her Pall Malls, and got to work.
Mom knew how to keep house: sprayed
each room with Lysol, scrubbed floors,
shopped at the local five-and-dime
for a wind chime strung with sea shells,
a welcome mat branded with a pelican,
placed them at my front door.  Mom was tired
of tracking my moves, tired of replacing
each entry in her book with new cities,
zip codes, tired of trying to ground my shaky roots.
After weeks of wear, we called a truce,
perhaps lulled by the sun's insistent warmth,
the Gulf's hypnotic pull.  We linked arms,
curled our toes in the forgiving sand,
the daughter who strayed, the mother who stayed
inside firm, familiar borders.  After she died
that winter, this is what I kept:  a snapshot,
unlike all others -- Mom, her salon-proof hair
unbound, whipped by the wind, an enduring
smile framed by untouched lips, all this, all this,
under a wide and bountiful sky.


This poem first appeared in the Mojave River Review (2014).
Used here with permission.