I held the Kleenex and she blew.
The temptation was to command, “again.”
She always said “again”
when I was runny-nosed boy.
I put a dot of balm on my pinky
and glided it onto her mouth.
She used to orbit her lips
with a red stick while I stared.
I touched her toes,
one little piggy at a time.
She counted all mine
when I arrived fifty years ago.
I held her hand and counted freckles.
Some were age spots now.
My finger touched the giraffe spots.
There is one on my arm too.
I combed her hair with my fingers
and she calmed down,
down like her eyelid’s slow descent.
Tears descended as I closed mine.
For my mother.
© Gerald Allen Barrett and parentheticallyspeakingin3d, 2012.