A Remembering of Sorts

I watched my mother
from under water. There
was a perfume rising
off the morning sea.
She sang slow and
breathed it all in.

She watched my heart
slowly softening.

My father’s mother
once prayed for my
future—the consolation
prized possession
of my father, whose
fingers it seems to keep
slipping through.

I’ve written these prayers
down for her.

I wanted nothing more
than to be a simple
woman, delicate—
sturdy with experience
—like a white napkin
tinted a few shades
from repeated use.


*Inspired by lines from Lorna Goodison’s poetry in Turn Thanks.


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