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
