Think of your mother making coffee

early on Sundays. How she pours

water into the machine carefully,


the folds of her skin blue and soft

in morning light. How she moves

about the house in a slow circle


while the coffee brews, opening

each window to let the breeze in.

How the little dog follows her


like she is some kind of beacon,

both of them stepping in and out

of patches of sun on carpet. How,


in moments of sun, your mother’s

bathrobe almost glows. This dance

is a map. This memory a compass.


She is not where you are going

or where you have been.

Photo by Bronx