Photo by kappuru // Licensed by Creative Commons

I talk to my mother through a wave of static,
Catching tiny moments. On a walk, heading home, in a pile of warm laundry.
The worries gush and hurl. I lash, unmoored –
Bits and pieces of woe snarl down the phone lines,
Through flat Ohio, rocky Pennsylvania,
Into the pockets and joints of
The blue glider where she rocked me to sleep as a baby
And rocks now alone.
I don’t mind, she says.
This is taking care of you.
This is like coloring,
Or screaming Greased Lightning and Sandra Dee into the August twilight,
Or lying on our backs in the water,
Or brushing your hair when you’re sick,
Or holding you when
Your arms were small enough to take baths in the sink
And your world was too small to forget how to breathe.
It doesn’t matter how far you fly to find home.
I take care of you.

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