Mirthful memories of stitches and axel grease,
Kennel Clubs and snicker doodles.
Memories like colors, collected on an artist’s palette,
Stirred with southpaw patience,
Finding her backward child upright,
On a cycle’s seat; in a hopeful heart.
She sprinkled her son with dust from a Turner’s apron,
Which was folded neatly behind a watercolor easel,
Beside a piece of curly maple, carved with care and honesty.
So strange the result of that old black hurst.
A harrowing childhood taught her to protect,
To find safety for her son; no more locked doors.
Scrapping wallpaper and a boot full of cola,
Kitters and critters, costumes and cross-hatching.
So many lessons for the care of those you love.
Vicks rub, vaporizers and hospital visits,
Waiting for hours for good Dr. Rhodes.
Truck seats and hugs before Basic Training,
Lunch dates at Wendy’s on top of Bridgeport Hill.
Concerns for character and a trip to the police station.
College apartments and Charleston summers.
Until the day he danced with her son,
On the day he was wed; without her,
That day would never have come.
I feel now the strokes of Monet,
And I thank the Breeze for my cradle,
And my view from the treetop,
Impressions from my past; gifts from my Mother.
The success of my love is rooted in her hands.