Sunday, May 16, 2010

...though everything I write is a poem to my mother. ~ Sharon Doubiago


It's the image of you that stays with me.
You,
at the table.
A coffee cup ever present beside you.
A cigarette smoldering,
and your hands
busy playing
Solitaire
Over and over and over
again.
Quiet,
eyes downcast,
concentrating.
The shuffle shuffle shuffle
slap
of the cards
the symphony
of my childhood.

5 comments:

LC said...

Like this.

That corgi :) said...

it is interesting the memories we have of our parents and our growing up years. have to wonder how many games of solitaire your mom won over the years

betty

Anita said...

I can see her. And I can imagine her thinking, "This is MY time and MY pleasure."

Pam said...

Oh my goodness! This could have been my mother. I have that exact same memory of her. Very weird.

Anita said...

Those images never really go away.
I have an image of my mom, sitting in the dark, in the living room, cigarette glowing, sitting up to scold me when I was in past my curfew.
Thanks for sharing your gift.