9 years

She was…

Wild desert wind and infectious laughter,

Open windows on abandoned Texas highways,

Cigarette smoke and Ralph Lauren perfume.

Mad with moonlight,

Seared golden by summer sunshine,

Faded blue jeans and iced tea on porch swings,

Creedence on Friday nights and Mozart on Sunday mornings.

She was tenacious hope wrapped in a broken body, begging for mercy.

She is…

The storm green depths staring back at me from our mirror,

The words bleeding from my fingertips,

The burden I carried,

The fire within that drives me,

The haunting tones dripping from my throat,

The rebellion that denies me defeat,

The need to be held,

The love that made me.

I am …

my mother’s child.

cswhitlow

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