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Today is my mother’s birthday.

I found a picture of her

From 30 years ago

In between the flaps of an old wallet.

Her eyes now rimmed with circles,

etched remnants of toil.

They shine the same blue,

A gaze of gentle peace.

 

I look at her hands,

Calloused and toughened

From years of laborious work.

Yet still so soft

As she caresses my cheek,

Her fingertips like silk

Over the lashes of my eyes.

 

She recounts to me stories

Of bigoted soldiers

And heinous crimes.

Scoldings and punishment,

Stares of superiority

Slathered over her body

Trying to strip

Dignity from the bone

 

I know her heart still beats

Rapidly and quickens

At a mention or image

Of those days

That stole her youth.

So we sit in silence

And bask in the rays of

the emerging sun.

 

By Anonymous

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