I study his pictures,
admiring his talent.
“But your art and mine helped me to get by, to survive.”
Then Mom comes over to us.
Dad pulls her close to one side
and me to
his other.
179.
Mom seems more like her old self.
I take a chance as we’re driving past Henley
and ask if she wants to meet Aunt Rose’s tree.
At first, she shakes her head vehemently,
but after a mile she turns around,
drives back, sighs, and whispers, “Show me.”
The ribbon is completely gone and the tree wears
leaves now. Mom surprises me and reaches her hands
up to a low branch and swings from it like a child.
We giggle when she slips and falls, and sit together
beneath it for a while. She doesn’t say she’s sorry
for the year I’ve had—it’s been hard on everyone—
but I can see pride and love and an apology
shining in her hope-filled eyes.
180.
Self-Portrait Revisited
I leave an expanse
of
white
space
I am a work in progress
Abbey