It is so easy for me to picture my mother
sitting just there in that chairÂ
on the deck of Mary’s houseÂ
in El Cerrito.
Â
Tapping her fingers lightly
on the arm of the chair
as if to play a tune on the piano
that she no longer played.
Â
Leaning her head back
closing her eyes
loving to feel the
California sun on her face.
Â
Shoes on, always, sheÂ
never was one to go barefoot.
How can you stand that? she’d ask me.
Aren’t your feet cold?
Shaking her head as I shook mine no.
Â
One of the many inconsequential
ways we were different.
I tap my fingers now, I’ve noticed.
But she always had a lighter touch
on the keys than I have.
