She sits in the wooden chair with the crochetted cushion
Waiting by the door.
When you come home from school,
She is there, always there.
She sweeps you into arms, strong from sweeping and twisting jars and scrubbing porcelain.
The scents of violets and talc are hers,
She prepares the stew from pieces of chicken, potatoes and so many spices. You are hungry as you practice the embroidery that she is teaching.
Rich, blacker than black hair swept back in an impossible bun that is alive atop her head.
Her fingers sweep a storm across the piano keys and she plays that Nocturne that you like.
You fall in the yard outside while chasing a soccer ball.
Your knee is red, grey and green. Blood, dust and grass.
She hugs you.
The medicine is in her hand.
There is a liquid, stinging, owwie, oh.
Then, the soothing ointment is on the scrape.
Later, you find out that it is the same thing that soldiers use for cuts suffered on jungle walks.
She kisses you.
Made by a mother's mind born in the heart.
She grows in the belly, dark and widening daily.
All for her.
You become a moist blanket, an envelope for the new person.
For the future.