Because tomorrow is Mother’s Day

I’ll admit I don't talk about her much.

 

It seems now she exists entirely in 

pen. A hesitation signed on the 

dotted line of pinpricked promises.

When it’s time to dedicate work that

materialized from places I have never 

wandered. When the only deserving name is 

Mom. A reference stolen from dragon’s 

treasure I was too ignorant to acknowledge, 

and the outline of memory shaded in grey, 

feathered, fuzzy, a constant blur of sound 

too vivacious to be corralled 

by the untrained eye

because when she died, 

I inherited the hummingbird.

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