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.