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.
Her heart was a winter fire that needed
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.