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About This Poem
My Mother
Barely breathing, I looked for her
throughout the house like a rabid
dog in a cage. I found her on the
sofa in front of the TV, learning
quickly she was always there at
3pm for her program.
I remember the bliss of lying in bed
with her, holding me tight in the evening
until father put an end to it. Mother had
beautiful olive skin and a sculpted Roman
nose. She used Clairol, looking like
Venus or the headline photo of Vogue.
She only went to Parent's Day once.
I was elated until I saw my artwork
hanging next to Arnold Smith's. His
was astonishing and mine, mediocre
at best. I was embarrassed and was
happy that my parents never attended
another school function.
I worshiped my mothers kindness
and her neatness in the kitchen and
her smokey brown eyes. Sometimes
I thought she was psychic but the
fantasies never really came true
and just disappeared like bits of
broken glass.
Julie Heckman
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