Posted on Leave a comment

August 21, 2011

It is so easy for me to picture my mother
sitting just there in that chair 
on the deck of Mary’s house 
in El Cerrito.
Tapping her fingers lightly
on the arm of the chair
as if to play a tune on the piano
that she no longer played.
Leaning her head back
closing her eyes
loving to feel the
California sun on her face.
Shoes on, always, she 
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.
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.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *