The scent of sporadically yellow, acidic-rotten lemons 

with a hint of fresh peppermint leaf in the air.

In the bright summer of ‘82,

the beaming light of the sun grazes upon

the consuming black hair of a young woman.

She is no older than 15; glancing naively at her surroundings,

as she lays against the trunk of a greened oak tree.

That woman is my mother, my blood.

My author, my kin.

Before the pain of motherhood.

Before the pain of me.

She lies quietly, delicately mumbling to herself.

A hand-carved pencil in her right hand,

made partially of the tree she rests against.

A petite brown-stained notebook in the other,

made of the greatest work trees can offer.

They are stripped from their peace,

solely because they are defenseless.

There she is,

visualizing the lengths her writing may go.

Pondering on how she will create meaning between each line, 

and wondering where the smell of citrus retains.

Writing, laughing, crying.

She does all of it.

Her innocent appearance is all that exists.

Not as a mother, 

but as a daughter, like I.

As I write, 

Or as I laugh, 

And even as I cry,

I am reminded of my mother.

Not by my actions, but by myself.

I see her everytime I speak,

Or as I smile,

And even as I scream,

I am the spitting image of her.

When I am being human, 

A portrait of my mother is all I see.

Sitting there, staring at me with spiteful eyes.

I am my mother’s daughter.

I am the woman I hate the most.

A Summer in ‘82—s.c