it may be a ceramic skillet
she keeps out
because she loves cooking
and she loves the way
food tastes when
cooked in this skillet.

it may be flowers she
picks from her yard
and arranges in a container
using the glass frog
she’s had all my life,
setting them on a tablecloth
she embroidered
as a young woman.

it may be four small, colorful glass ducks,
lined up on her desk,
replicas of the ducks at
the peabody in memphis, tennessee.


it may be a poem i wrote her
so many years ago
to dress up some
crazy, inexpensive gift
i bought her,
and a postcard i sent her
from a trip we were on,
written, stamped, and mailed while she was
standing right beside me.
it may be a piece of granite
she decorated
at the quarry in
barre, vermont,
an impromptu side trip
on one of the best
trips we ever took
and it may be
the inexpensive plaque
about family
i gave her
when we moved away
last march.

she calls them
my mother.

i call them

~~ :: ~~