and you had left this world for good,
I'd find such comfort remembering
the way it felt to braid your hair.
To gather thick handfuls away from your nape,
smoothing down all the flyaways,
then dividing the whole into three separate strands
to crisscross them into a simple plait.
All the while, Mom, your voice is purling
among the sounds of the dining room,
and your hands are clasped on the table top
while family life flows around us two.
And even though I may not see your face
or really be thinking about you at all,
you are always the unsung focal point:
present, fully embodied, and - for the moment - at rest.
