A Photo of My Mother from Years Ago Before She Began to Lose Her Memories
In a musty album
tucked in a cabinet
in the back room,
there is a photo of my mother
taken years ago during a trip north.
That she had stolen
a few days from teaching kids
to travel to the summer cabin in November
was surprisingly irresponsible. Yet
after that first set
of my father’s illnesses –
I understand now –
spending time together
became more important. So,
as the shutter snapped,
it caught her delighted
by the early snow,
surprised by its arrival to a place
she knew best
in the warmth of summer.
Her smile warm and open.
For a moment, she didn’t feel
the wet snow on her hair,
or notice the gray sky
that loomed on the horizon.
Enough
that she pried open a crack
big enough to squeeze
from a bushel of work
a few drops of
sweet connection.