My Mother's Book
High on a shelf are some old hard-back books;
Mary Poppins is one on the pile.
An inscription inside, in a neat cursive hand,
Which I recognized, caused me to smile.
It belonged to my mom, which she got as a gift
From a teacher in her junior high.
Though it’s faded and worn, I won’t toss it away,
But it’s hard to exactly say why.
Such a link to the past is, to me, like a lens
Which allows a brief glimpse of a time
When my mother knew not that a mother she’d be,
Years before from her youth she did climb.
So I dusted it off and replaced it up high
On the back of the very same shelf,
A reminder of life when I didn’t exist
And my mom lived her life for herself.
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