It's Still Life

SHE 

I found Mum’s photo, face down,
on the floor this morning. I picked her up.
Dusted her off.

My mother was never a beautiful gliding form.

She’d gladly run the lawnmower over a snake,
pierce the ground to stop a mole’s hill,
toss a slug into a busy road.

She played the trumpet as a kid, 
said it made all her teeth go crooked.

One summer she plucked every hair from her legs.
Shaving, she said, was a waste of her time.

Mum was sturdy and strong, an emotional axe. 
She was a mountain, an ocean, a snowflake.
A laugh.

Her heart was a winter fire that needed 
constant attention.

She cared for my dad when he no longer cared.
She was a gentle deed one minute, 
an eagle the next.

She never said I love you
unless I said it first, thought somethings
needn’t be said, was her thinking on that.

Her photo is now sitting back on my desk. 
Yes, her smile, that’s what I miss the best.

Image is from Unsplash.